Long Time Comin'
by ladygris
Summary: Clint Barton left New York to figure out his life and who he really is. Now, he retraces his steps as a child, facing those old nightmares and hoping to heal from Loki's attack. He is being followed, however, and the reason might hit a little closer to home than he would like. Sequel to "New York State of Mind."
1. Takin' It All For Granted

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to Avengers, Marvel, or their wonderful characters. I'm just playing in their sandbox for a while. I do, however, own any of the OCs.

**Author's Note:** So, when I finished writing the prequel to this story, New York State of Mind, I never really thought I would get on this one right away. But, here it is. It is completely written, with the final three chapters awaiting beta-work. So there should be no delay in posting new chapters on Mondays and Fridays. Chapters are quite a bit longer than in New York State of Mind and get longer as the story progresses.

However, I wanted to address a couple things right here. First of all, some parts of this could seem a bit dark. This story is a meant to be a character study of Clint Barton and what makes him tick. He did not have a happy childhood or history. So, be warned now that there might be. . .I guess, "triggers" is the latest term for it. I've kept it as light as possible, but there's your warning.

Also, there is a lot of comic book canon in this story. I've done a bit of research, reading and re-reading websites. I basically took what of comic book canon fit into my idea of the character from the movie and then didn't use what I wanted. As comic book readers know, the history and canon is somewhat convoluted anyway. So, here's my version. Just please keep in mind I'm a fan of the movie and not the comic books. Some of the characters seen in the comics will be very OOC for the comics, but they fit well in this story. Also, some names have been changed from what they were in the comics, most notable of them being Clint's parents.

Finally, I've placed Clint as being older than most fanfic writers do. The actor himself is 41, and I personally place Clint around 35. If you're wondering about my reasons for it, drop me a line via PM and I'll explain.

All that said, I hope you enjoy this story!

oOo

I've been takin' it all for granted,  
Everything that I have been given.  
Now it is a day to start my mission.  
It's been a long time comin'.

There are many searchin' for answers.  
Tell me, who am I to keep it to myself?  
I've grown weary of my own fears, yeah,  
It's been a long time comin'.

I've been runnin' just like an outlaw,  
And I am willin' and I am able  
To give you somethin' you can believe on.  
It's been a long time comin'.

True believers have been starin'  
Lookin' to the sky, waitin' for Your return.  
And I know that clouds will roll down.  
It's been a long time comin'.

~Mac Powell~

oOo

Waverly, Iowa, hadn't changed all that much since the last time Clint saw it. And, yet, it had. Everything looked smaller, not so intimidating as he remembered, and rather spread out. Clint stood at the Greyhound depot, just breathing the farm air deeply and getting his bearings. The bus had pulled away some time ago, leaving him a lone figure dressed in dark blue with a black duffel bag over his shoulder and the case holding his bow and quiver in his hand.

He had put off coming back here for so long, and, now that he was here, he wondered what he had feared. Was it the memories that were barely more than shadows in his mind? He had been too young when life changed and took him down a fantastic and horrifying route. Was it that he might become like his father? While he'd had his moments of getting drunk and reacting poorly, he always sought to change what he'd been shown as a child. Or was it simply that he didn't want to think of this portion of his life because it had started him down a path that led to the present? Clint wasn't sure, but the sudden rush of nerves struck him as unprofessional and completely out of character.

Of course, this entire leave-of-absence and journey of self-discovery was out of character for him. During his time with SHIELD, he'd become known as the man who never buckled under pressure. Loki had changed that, and Clint suddenly needed to know who he was. Was he Hawkeye or a SHIELD agent at the core? Or was that who he had become out of necessity and a will to survive? Did he have it in him to be more than that? What, exactly, had Coulson seen in him when he recruited the young, cocky archer trained in the circus and working for the bad guys? All these questions demanded answers, and Clint hadn't been able to find them in New York City, where he'd taken almost everything for granted. Nor could he find them on SHIELD's helicarrier with the suspicious stares and mistrustful glances sent his way. He needed to do this alone, to face his own fears and learn who he was.

Finally stepping off the platform near the bus stop, Clint began walking down Bremer Avenue, following the map he'd snagged from inside the bus depot. A Comfort Inn sat on the outskirts of town, and he hoped to get a room overlooking the open fields. His mind told him the town had grown, sprawled, and become more metropolitan than the one in his memory, but he couldn't trust himself with that. He recalled Waverly from the mind of a child, someone who barely remembered what it was like to have a family before all except his brother was stripped from him. Blinking to push away those thoughts, he simply walked. Several people waved and greeted him, recognizing that he was a stranger, and he returned their greeting with a polite smile and nod. What would they say when they learned he'd once called their fair town home? How would they react if they knew he had become a trained, professional killer? Or would they really care? Most didn't acknowledge his presence, but he knew he stood out. This town boasted a population of less than ten thousand people. Getting "lost" here would take a lot more work than it did in New York City.

The Comfort Inn sat right in front of a Walmart Super Center, not Clint's first choice of location but something he could handle. It made purchasing supplies without a vehicle easier, and he suddenly began thinking about transportation. He couldn't rely on Greyhound to get him everywhere even if it had been a fitting way to leave New York behind. Natasha had certainly appreciated his dry humor even if she'd rolled her eyes at him. Now that he'd arrived, however, he began to seriously think over his plans for the next four months.

Comfort Inn happily accommodated him with a room that looked over the fields surrounding Waverly. Across the street opposite of Walmart, the golf course sprawled behind a machinery shop and tractor store. Clint smiled as he walked up to his room on the second floor and entered with the key card. His guard naturally went up the moment the door opened, and he briefly checked all the hiding spots in the room to make certain no one waited for him. Once the room had been secured, he dropped his duffel bag on the bed and brazenly opened the window. He had spent too much time keeping to shadows and hiding from what _might_ be out there. While not breathtaking in the least, the view out the window calmed him. The wide-open fields gave him room to breathe and think.

Decision made to leave the windows open, Clint nodded and dug through his duffel bag. He'd spent the last two days on the Greyhound, and he needed a shower. The hot water felt great, and he ignored the wrinkles in his gray t-shirt. Tugging on a black leather jacket, black jeans, and his fingerless gloves, he stepped out of the door without his beloved bow and headed for the nearest restaurant for dinner.

He found a small waffle house and slipped inside. There was one family sitting next to the window, an elderly gentleman at the bar drinking coffee, and a waitress and short-order cook behind the counter. All in all, the place was quiet and nothing like Applebee's, which was close to his hotel. The waitress smiled and greeted him, telling him to make himself at home and that she'd be with him shortly. He nodded and turned toward the booth tucked in a back corner of the restaurant. The old-timer swiveled on his chair to glance at Clint and then stopped and frowned. "If it ain't one o' the Barton boys!"

Clint froze for just a moment before meeting the guy's gaze. The family had paused in their eating and were staring at him, wide-eyed. Clint frowned. "Excuse me?"

"You're Bill and Hannah's boy, aren't ya?" The guy waved a hand when Clint gave a hesitant nod. "Thought so. You look just like your mother."

Clint changed direction and instead chose a stool next to the guy. "You knew my parents?"

"And you, too, but I'm not surprised you don't remember. Been nigh on twenty years since you disappeared." He stuck out his hand. "Curtis Mitchell."

Clint grinned as he shook the guy's hand. "I do remember you."

"Thought you might." Curtis gave him a grin before motioning to the waitress. "Hey, put Clint's meal here on my tab. It's not every day a prodigal comes home."

Clint winced at that. "I was kind of hoping to get out of here without anyone noticing."

"No chance of that." Curtis paused while Clint gave the waitress his order. "You were all over the news a few weeks back, sayin' you were part of that alien invasion that hit New York."

Clint raised his chin slightly, debating what to tell Curtis. The family near the window also listened, and he hated the thought that they might think him responsible for nearly destroying the planet. "Don't believe everything you hear in the media, Curtis."

"You kidding?" Curtis frowned at him as the waitress set his chicken fried steak in front of him. "You're Hawkeye! Waverly's own superhero! Do you _know_ what it did to the kids around here? Half of the boys are still runnin' around with bows and arrows, and the girls—particularly the teens—have this fantasy you'll show up and sweep 'em off their feet."

Clint felt the heat creeping up the back of his neck. "They do realize I'm old enough to be their father, right?"

Curtis just laughed mirthlessly with him. He sobered a moment later. "You know, you're not the only Barton to come back in recent days."

Clint, who had taken his first bite of food, froze for the second time inside of thirty minutes. "Barney's back?" _Barney's alive?_ he asked silently.

"He visited. Didn't stay."

"Why?"

"Never said, though I'd say you two have more in common than you realize." Curtis sipped his coffee, shaking his head. "He had the same lost expression on his face you have."

"Did he say where he was headed?"

"Nope. Just visited the old Willoughby House and the grave, then left."

Clint ate a few more bites in silence, his appetite gone but the need to refuel his body keeping him going. The Willoughby House brought back memories Clint would rather have forgotten. He suddenly recalled plain white, institutional hallways, rooms filled with metal bunk beds and thin mattresses, and the smell of cigarettes. Finally, he spoke. "The Willoughby House? It still a home for boys?"

"Nah, it's a museum now." Curtis spoke softly. "Old Man Willoughby passed 'bout ten years back. Emphysema."

Clint chuckled, though laughter was the farthest thing from his mind. "Sounds about right." After a moment, he pushed aside his dinner. "What's the museum?"

"A tribute to the orphanage." Curtis narrowed his eyes. "I knew you left for a reason, but we never really figured it out."

Clint tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. "Yeah, well, some things are better kept private, Curtis." He pushed to his feet. "Thanks for dinner."

Curtis reached out and stopped his departure. "Listen, I don't know what you're lookin' for, Clint, but I hope you find it."

Clint nodded. "Yeah, me, too."

He walked back to his hotel in a thoughtful mood, his hands shoved into his pockets and his mind whirling. The information that his brother had also visited their home town startled him, but it didn't change why he'd come back. He wasn't there to find Barney-if it even was Barney. He'd come to retrace his steps, to figure out who he was without The Amazing Hawkeye or Agent Barton to interfere. Being recognized hadn't figured into his plans at all.

Now that he _had_ been recognized, however, he needed to be careful. All it took was the wrong person overhearing his identity to start the ball rolling on a very bad day for someone. Shaking his head at the thought, Clint let himself into his hotel room and closed the curtains. A short time later, he lay in bed and forced himself to relax. He was in his home town, and no one wanted him dead. At least, not that he knew.

oOo

"_What did it show you, Agent Barton?" Loki asked._

"_My next target," Clint replied without hesitation._

"_Tell me what you need."_

_Clint walked over to a black case on a table, opening it and pulling out his collapsible bow. "I need a distraction." With one practiced move, his bow flipped open. "And an eyeball."_

_Loki grinned, but his face changed and became older, fatter, and with jowls that jiggled as the man spoke. He raised a cigarette to his lips, drawing on it and then puffing smoke into Clint's face. "Why didn't you say so, son?"_

Clint sat up, knife in hand and ready to attack the intruder in his room. It took a moment to realize that he was alone in a hotel room in Waverly, that Loki was back on Asgard and under guard, and that Old Man Willoughby was dead. When he did get back to reality, he squeezed his eyes shut as he dropped his hand to his lap. He might have been on leave, but his enemies didn't care. He carried several knives with him wherever he went and slept with a gun and knife under his pillow. He must have subconsciously realized Willoughby was a dream and pulled the knife instead of putting several bullets through the wall.

A glance at the clock on the bedside table told him it was three in the morning, but Clint knew he wouldn't sleep again until that evening. He hadn't counted on Willoughby invading his dreams after so long. He hadn't even thought of the name until that day when Curtis mentioned it. Waverly had simply been a place to start his search, not a planned stop. But the very sound of that name still caused Clint to shudder. His life before the Willoughby House hadn't been easy. He'd been whipped long before Old Man Willoughby decided to lay a strap to his back, but he had never known the fear that he'd felt while at the Willoughby House.

Shoving the blankets aside, Clint dressed quickly and slipped out the door. He walked silently down the stairs, not wanting to draw the attention of the night clerk in the hotel. The Walmart parking lot was empty in spite of the store being open for twenty-four hours, and no one seemed to notice as he stretched in the shadows of the parking lot. A few moments later, he took off for a run down 240th Street and didn't stop until covered in sweat and ready to face the day. He returned to the hotel, walking the last mile as he watched the sunrise. The bright summer sun mocked the darkness in his mind as he worked to put his past behind him. Loki wasn't on Earth, and Old Man Willoughby had died ten years ago. Neither of them could hurt him again, and, if they had tried, he could have killed them without pausing in his run or shedding one tear.

In his room, Clint climbed into a shower and tried to wash the memory of his time as Loki's slave, as well as his history as Old Man Willoughby's whipping post, from his mind as easily as he washed the sweat from his body. When he failed on both counts, he settled for pushing them back into the realm of the ignored. He had too much to do that day to be distracted by memories of things he couldn't change. Somewhere along the route of his run, he'd decided to buy a vehicle and needed to make certain his checking account, something every SHIELD agent had in spite of the secrecy of their lives, had enough money in it. He didn't want fancy or noticeable, just something that would last him on his travels. He figured he'd track down Curtis and ask if anyone was selling something in his price range.

He also planned to visit the Willoughby House. That decision had followed the one to purchase a vehicle. Why the two connected wasn't clear in Clint's mind, but he wasn't going to argue. If this time was about reconnecting with _Clint Barton_, he needed to face that part of his past. Thankfully, his training as a SHIELD agent would allow him to escape the museum without showing his emotions, but it wouldn't be the easiest day of his life. And he needed to visit his parents' graves.

He took care of that last item on his list during his walk into the main portion of Waverly. His route took him right past the cemetery, and he wandered through the headstones while avoiding the Barton family plot. The memory of his mother's smile came back to him now, and he hated that his father's drunkenness had destroyed it. He had sworn to never become a drunk like his old man, which left Clint shocked that he'd turned to alcohol after learning of Coulson's death. He had hated his father for many years, never once realizing that _he_ could succumb to the same weakness. Steve's visit in that bar had awakened him to his actions, and he'd spent a good amount of time berating himself until Banner more or less told him to make peace with his past.

Finally in front of his parents' graves, he read the headstones. William and Hannah Barton had died twenty-nine years ago when William wrapped their car around a tree. Clint and Barney had been at a friend's house, giving their parents a "date night," as it were. Clint knew now that those "date nights" often ended with his mother in tears and his father passed out on the couch. But, back then, he'd just been happy to escape the chaos for a bit while playing with friends.

He was six when his parents died. Several distant aunts and uncles came to the funeral, but Clint and Barney had been turned over to the Willoughby House rather than going to live with one of their cousins. At first, Clint had thought things would get better. Yes, the Willoughby House was an orphanage, but he would have friends, other boys to play with, and his brother nearby. Now, nearly thirty years later, Clint smirked mirthlessly. If anything, things had gotten worse at the Willoughby House.

Shaking those memories from his head, Clint knelt next to his mother's gravestone. Her name, birth and death dates, and a Bible verse had been carved on the beveled stone, but the area had a neglected feel to it. Clint brushed years of dirt from her name and pulled a few weeds away from it. Satisfied that it looked as good as he could make it right now and planning to return with flowers, he gave his father's headstone a sneer before turning away. Bill Barton had only ever given him one thing: genetics. If Curtis said he looked more like his mother, then Clint decided to take that as a compliment. He wanted nothing to do with his father.

After leaving the cemetery, Clint walked through town, browsing the car lots he passed as he did so. He found several small cars in his price range, though he didn't care for any of them. Around noon, he slipped into another restaurant for lunch, planning to sit in a back booth and peruse the classifieds while preparing for that afternoon's events. No one recognized him this time, and he was able to eat his burger and fries while skimming cars for sale. He found a 1995 Ford F150 that sounded good and memorized the phone number before paying for his meal. Outside, he tugged a rarely-used cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number. The guy on the other end happily set up a meeting for as quickly as Clint could walk there, and he found himself smiling as he turned toward the address he was given.

An hour later, he drove up to the Willoughby House in his used truck. The air conditioner worked, but it took a bit to get it cooled down. It didn't matter to Clint, who rarely drove anything that didn't have the SHIELD logo on its side. His exploration under the hood of this thing had shown it had a lot of life still left in spite of the age, and he'd happily find a place to park it in New York once he returned.

Now, he faced the monstrosity that was the Willoughby House. An old Victorian-style home, it had been purchased by Steve and Anna Willoughby forty years ago. The couple had turned the place into the Willoughby House for Boys, receiving orphaned boys from all over Iowa and neighboring states. On the surface, their entire place looked great, but Clint had lived through six years of beatings, mockery, and bullying. He knew differently, no matter what everyone else said. So did Barney, for that matter.

Steeling himself against the memories, Clint pushed through the front door and looked around. It appeared almost identical to his memories, with every piece of furniture right where Anna Willoughby had placed it. The museum curator approached him, giving him the option of strolling the "historical" house or taking a tour. Clint smiled as politely as possible, picked up a flyer just for something to hold, and declined her offer of a tour. She eyed him curiously as he made his way through the front parlor, as Old Man Willoughby had called it, and into the kitchen. Out of the entire house, he remembered this place as being filled with laughter and warmth. Why was it that he had the worst father figures in his life and the best mother figures?

Shoving the thought out of his head, he finally forced himself to brave the upper floors. The second floor was filled with dormitories while the third floor held the family's private quarters. The Willoughbys had had a son, Randall, who liked to remind all the other boys that _he_ got to live "above-stairs" and wasn't one of them. Clint had coped with the mockery well, but Randall had seen something in six-year-old Clint that triggered his sadistic side. Randall took after his father in many ways. While Old Man Willoughby never laid a finger on his wife or son, he didn't hesitate to take his anger out on the orphans under his care. Clint had heard stories about what he did to others, but he thankfully never knew much more than Willoughby's anger. If Randall wasn't pushing Clint around and starting fights with him, Old Man Willoughby was taking a strap to his back for some perceived wrong. It had gone on for six long years before Clint had had enough.

Clint blinked, finding himself standing in the doorway of "his" room. The walls were white, as were the curtains. The metal bunk beds had thicker mattresses on them now, likely a concession to make the house more inviting. The curtains fluttered in a light breeze from the window, their eyelet border framing the pastoral vista outside. Clint forced himself to step into the room, brushing his fingers over the bunk he and his brother had shared. Barney had claimed the top bunk on their first night, leaving Clint with the bottom bed. To this day, he still fought anyone over the freedom to sleep on the top bunk. The bottom bunk represented weakness and vulnerability, and he refused to be either one of those.

Ten other boys had slept in this room with him and his brother, each one as concerned about Old Man Willoughby's anger as he had been. He wondered what had become of them. Had they survived their time here? Or had they followed his and Barney's lead in running away? While the Willoughby House was pristine and perfect on the surface, the secrets were like the emphysema that had killed Old Man Willoughby.

Footsteps in the hallway once again brought Clint to the present. He looked up in time to see the museum curator slip into the room. She was a tall woman, slender and wearing a denim skirt that reached her ankles. Her slip-on flats whispered over the hard wood as she smiled. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to close the place down. My mother's ill, and. . . ."

Clint smiled, stopping the explanation. "No problem." He glanced back to the bed he'd shared. "Just a quick question. Do any of the boys who lived here ever come back?"

Her face contorted into a frown. "I don't know. We don't get many visitors, but Old Man Willoughby left behind enough money to maintain this place, as his will wanted. I suppose some of them could have come back." She narrowed her eyes. "Did you know one of the boys?"

Clint's smile turned sad. "Yeah. Clint and Barney Barton."

She blinked rapidly, almost as if her mind were cycling through information. "Old Man Willoughby kept a lot of records. I could look them up, if you'd like."

"No, that's okay." He straightened and let out a deep breath, walking past her to leave the house.

She stopped him with a single question. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

Clint turned, surprised. "I'm sorry?"

"One of the boys." She shrugged. "You lived here."

Clint nodded, taking in the room that had pretended to be his home for six years. "Yeah. A long time ago."

A warm smile touched her face. "I thought so." She shook her head. "I had no fondness for my uncle, but I do often wonder about the boys who lived here. Where they went, who they became, what they accomplished. Some of them ran away, but some graduated from high school and moved on."

The wistfulness in her voice was genuine, and Clint met her eyes. "Some of us came out okay," he said softly, his voice gruff with emotion. "No matter what happens, know that some of us are doing something _good_ with our lives."

She blinked in surprise and then nodded. "Thank you," she said softly.

Clint left then, his heart surprisingly lighter than when he'd arrived. As he started his truck and drove back to his hotel, he sighed. The nightmares of his time at the Willoughby House would remain, but having revisited it made it seem somewhat smaller in his mind. He had taken it for granted that the house had not changed, that Old Man Willoughby still lived, and that he would never be able to overcome that portion of his life.

Maybe he was wrong.

~TBC


	2. Start My Mission

**Author's Note:** I should have said this in the last chapter and completely forgot...That's what you get when you post something after writing for almost seven hours straight! Anyway, this story was beta'd by the wonderful **icemenace**. Thank you, my friend.

Also, this story is a bit different for me. Normally, I bounce between points of view to get all sides of a story...the bad guy's, the supporting characters, etc. This time, I stuck with Clint's POV through all of it. :)

Now, for some review replies...Most of you I've replied to personally, but, for those who don't have an account or weren't logged in...

**olimpia**: Thanks! So glad you like it! It's a different story, though I enjoy really digging into what makes a character who he/she is. :)

**Jessica**: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying the story-and that you enjoyed the prequel. :) There will be updates on Mondays and Fridays. :)

Now, on with the story...

oOo

Clint went back to his parents' graves the next morning. This time, he carried a potted plant to place next to his mother's gravestone—mums since he recalled that her favorite color was yellow. But a child of six years old doesn't pay attention to his mother's favorite _kind_ of flower. Now, as he carefully placed the pot so that the sprinkler system in the park would water it, he sighed. "Sorry it took so long to come back."

He didn't call her "Mom," couldn't call her "Mom." It was so foreign. He'd been an orphan for too long, without any kind of family save for Phil and Natasha, that giving anyone the status of mother just left him wanting to squirm. And Hawkeye never squirmed.

Instead, he settled into the damp grass and sighed as he looked around. He felt just as uncomfortable talking to his long-dead mother as he did being in the media spotlight. He wasn't Tony Stark and never would be. But this shouldn't be as difficult as it was. In all of his memories, the sound of his mother's voice was one of the oldest, most faded that he possessed. His days in the circus were full of sound and light and colors, his years in SHIELD covered in shadows and covert missions, while his time with Loki. . . .His time with Loki was blue—electric blue that glowed out of the eyes of those controlled by the would-be god. Compared to those bright hues and deep secrets, his short childhood had been bleached to the point it barely had any color at all.

Clint pulled his knee up and draped his right arm over it. He supposed he'd come to this place for himself. Waverly, Iowa, where he began. He'd been born in the old hospital that had been torn down years ago, living in a troubled home with a father who liked alcohol and little else. The bitterness in that thought surprised him, and he wondered why, after all these years, he still held his father responsible. _Maybe because you would have turned out differently if he had not killed himself and your mother,_ his mind answered, sounding suspiciously like Loki.

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and tried to push that voice from his mind. He had these moments often, though none of the Avengers—or even the SHIELD psychologists the Council insisted he see—knew of them. He hid them, hid how disconcerting it was to know Loki had uncovered everything he had ever known or done.

_Do you know what it's like to be unmade?_

His question to Natasha floated through his head. He did. He understood exactly what that unmaking felt like, and he hated it. He could not trust himself in any situation, and he had no way of knowing who he was now that Loki had destroyed his confidence in himself.

_Look at you now,_ his mind taunted. _You're sitting at her grave, thinking about things you cannot change._

Clint tightened his hand into a fist, opening his eyes to stare at his mother's name carved into the stone. Hannah Barton, the woman he idealized the most because he hadn't known her. He had often thought that, if he had a daughter, he would name her after his mother. Now, he shook his head. He doubted he would ever have children. Too many people knew his face. Too many bullets had "Hawkeye" printed on them. Too many arms dealers and mafia dons and terrorist cells had put his name on a "kill on sight" list. He could never risk bringing a child of his own into a world like that.

Is that what Hannah Barton had wanted for her younger son? Clint couldn't answer the question. Yes, he worked for the "good guys," but he still wondered if she would have approved. After all, he had run when things got tough, making his own way at the tender age of twelve and dragging his sixteen-year-old brother along with him. Barney hadn't wanted to leave the Willoughby House. Yes, his brother feared Old Man Willoughby, but not like Clint had. And Clint had made the decision to run away without ever considering what it might mean for his brother.

The anger from his memories faded, leaving him lost in thought and time. He rarely remembered the night he'd slipped from the Willoughby House after the Willoughby family finally retired for the evening. The boys had to be in bed by eight at night, no matter what was happening in town, while Randall Willoughby was left to run up and down the stairs at all hours. And he did so often, taking great delight in disturbing the other boys and then watching his father "punish" them for talking or moving about. By the time he'd reached ten years old, Clint had mastered the skill of moving through the old, settling house without making a sound. He knew which stairs creaked, which windows opened silently, and which floorboards were loose. He often slipped from his bunk and crept downstairs, past the lamp glowing in the parlor where Anna Willoughby worked on some embroidery, and into the cool night air of the open fields. During those days, the darkness was his friend.

Everything changed the night he ran away.

oOo

"_What are you doing?"_

_Clint jumped at the hiss behind him and whirled to face his brother. Barney towered over him, nearing six feet in height as he charged out of the darkness with no grace at all. Clint glared up at him. "What does it look like?"_

"_You can't just leave!"_

"_Watch me." Clint turned and marched determinedly away, a blanket holding everything he owned in the world over his shoulder. For a few moments, he thought he'd managed to rid himself of his brother._

_Barney had other ideas. He grabbed Clint's arm and whirled him around. "What happens to us, huh? Think about everyone else!"_

"_I'm tired of thinking about everyone else!" Clint hissed back. Neither boy spoke loudly knowing their voices would carry across the open field._

_Barney folded his arms across his chest. "Then think about me."_

"_I am." Clint shrugged. "I can't stay there, Barney. I can't live like that."_

"_It's not forever." Barney put a hand on his shoulder. "In two more years, I'll be eighteen. Then, I can leave, adopt you, and we're free."_

_Clint shrugged off his brother's hand. "You think it's that easy? You think that I'll get out without scars? I had a broken arm last year, Barney! Because Randall thought it looked great to see me tumble down the stairs!"_

_Barney ducked his head. "I know. Sorry I wasn't there."_

"_You shouldn't have to be there."_

_That statement hung between them before Barney sighed. "I can't stop you, can I?"_

"_Nope." Clint readjusted his load._

"_So where're you goin'?"_

_Clint looked around and pointed in a vague direction. "There."_

"_Cedar Falls? That's fifteen miles away!"_

"_So?"_

"_You're gonna walk?"_

"_If I have to."_

_Barney sighed again and shook his head. "You have no idea how far that is, do you?"_

_Clint just shrugged again. "I'll make it."_

_Barney scoffed. "Right." He ran a hand through his longish hair. Then, he sighed explosively. "Fine! Let's go."_

_Clint blinked at his brother's sudden agreement. "What?"_

"_You need someone to watch out for you." Barney turned from his position five steps ahead of him. "You comin'?"_

oOo

Clint blinked as the memory faded. His decision to leave the Willoughby House had come a year before he worked up the courage to actually run. He'd practiced every night, sneaking out into the fields and then losing his nerve at the last minute. Old Man Willoughby caught him once, and Clint had been unable to put any pressure on his back for several weeks. He still bore the scars of that beating, but they'd shrunk and become less important than other scars he picked up along the way. At that time, he hadn't planned on joining the circus or becoming a spy or anything that had happened. He just wanted out of the orphanage.

Unclenching his fist, Clint sighed deeply. Just as his life had drastically changed with his parents' deaths, it had also changed with his decision to run away. He and Barney had walked toward Cedar Falls for hours, neither one talking as both boys were irritated with one another. But, as the sun rose on a new day—a day of freedom—they had set aside their differences. Barney pulled Clint off the road and toward a clearing. Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders had arrived two days ago, and both boys had wanted to see what the circus was like. They'd heard stories at school about swordsmen and animals and the trapeze. Clint couldn't even imagine it and had hoped to see it before the circus moved on. However, the Willoughbys took Randall, pointedly leaving the other boys under the care of a neighbor. The next day, Randall took great pride in torturing the other boys with tales of what he'd seen in the circus.

Clint barely remembered what triggered his response to leave. Like most things, it was small in the grand scheme of life. Thinking back now, he pushed aside the beatings and neglect and whispers to find that one thing that broke his resolve to wait for Barney to reach eighteen. The memories of that night slowly coalesced in his mind, and he smirked.

Randall had been airily telling some of the younger boys about the circus. Clint had no longer been the littlest kid, but he still wasn't large. He had listened patiently and made the mistake of wondering aloud if any of them would be able to go. Randall had stood nose-to-nose with him and told him he wasn't worth living, wasn't worth the food he ate, and shouldn't even be alive. The other boy went on to insult Clint's parents, and Clint had finally had enough. Without thinking, he threw a quick punch and bloodied Randall's nose. The bully howled as Clint darted for cover, and he hid throughout the afternoon and into the night, silently moving from place to place so that Old Man Willoughby wouldn't be able to find him. Once the lights had been turned out, he crept to the chest that held the few things he'd collected over the years, tied them all up into a blanket, and snuck out the window. He apparently hadn't been as quiet as he thought because Barney caught him.

All through that day, they'd watched the carnies go about their business, practice their acts, and live their lives. He suspected Jacques knew they were there all along, but no one gave them away. That night, they snuck into the tent just after the show began. Clint remembered sitting in the shadows, not moving a muscle as the wonders of the circus played out before his eyes. No wonder Randall had been enthralled.

Now, twenty-three years after that night, Clint smiled grimly. Even though life had been hard before then, he had no idea the kind of chaos he'd walked into just by slipping under the edge of the circus tent. He and Barney, exhausted from their long walk, had argued with one another until they finally collapsed nearby. The next morning, they were nudged awake by a man named Jacques Duquesne and told to get to work. And, just like that, they joined the circus.

Reviewing those days as an adult showed Clint just how lucky he had been. While life with Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders wasn't easy, it gave him a safe place to just be a boy. He still had to practice with Jacques for his Swordsman act, ultimately had to practice daily and showed great proficiency with a bow, and avoided multiple skirmishes with other carnies. But he now knew he could have ended up in jail, back at the Willoughby House, or simply alone and resorting to crime just for his mere survival. The Carnival gave him a sanctuary, a place where at least one person saw value in him and cared about what happened to him.

Just like his mother.

His thoughts came full circle, again focusing on Hannah Barton as he blinked away the memories. While he never really _knew_ her, he hoped she'd be proud of him. His work, while not honorable, at least helped prevent some evil in the world. And, when it had all mattered and his planet had been at risk, he had rallied enough to fight Loki. It was all he could offer to his mother's memory.

Nodding at nothing and everything, he pushed to his feet and brushed blades of grass from his jeans. He had seen enough in Waverly. He really hadn't given much thought to coming here, but he now realized his mission to learn who Clint Barton really was had to start where Clint Barton's life began. While he had not truly dealt with the abuse of his childhood—and likely wouldn't for a very long time—he could honestly say that he'd taken the first steps toward healing. It felt good, in a painful way. By facing those old memories, he cleaned the infection from the wounds. Hopefully, they'd scar, and he'd one day find that they no longer ached when touched.

oOo

After leaving the cemetery, Clint checked out of the hotel and tossed his duffel into the floorboard of his truck. His bow lay on the passenger seat as he backed out of the Comfort Inn's parking lot and headed for the waffle house. He had liked what little food he ate there two days ago, and he suspected Curtis was a regular.

Pushing through the door, Clint noticed a different waitress this time. Just as he'd thought, Curtis sat at the bar drinking coffee. He cast a tired glance at Clint. "Still here?"

"Just heading out." Clint took the stool next to the old man. "What're you doing here?"

Curtis shrugged. "I own the place. Gotta keep up appearances."

The waitress rolled her eyes. "Don't let him fool you, honey. He might _own_ the place, but all he does is drink coffee all day."

Clint grinned at her as Curtis snorted into his cup, seeing the wedding ring on her finger and recognizing the comment for what it was. He ordered his own cup of coffee and a grilled chicken sandwich. With hours on the road, he didn't need anything heavy on his stomach. Besides, his years in SHIELD had changed his diet, and all the heavy foods of the last few days were starting to wear on him. If he wanted to survive these four months with his body in fighting form, he needed to watch what he ate. Starting now.

While the waitress went off to make his sandwich, Clint added a touch of sugar and cream to his coffee. He smirked to himself. No one made coffee as black as he liked it, so he'd tried Natasha's trick for making "bad coffee" palatable. It worked somewhat, leaving him feeling a bit nostalgic for his partner. But he needed to be away from the other Avengers, away from New York, and away from SHIELD if he ever wanted to trust himself again.

He and Curtis chatted amicably about politics and baseball as Clint ate his lunch. Then, after sipping at his refilled coffee, he broached the subject on his mind. "Hey, you remember that circus that used to come through occasionally? Carson's Carnival or something like that?"

Curtis frowned for a moment, and then his face brightened. "Yeah, I remember. Kids used to love goin' to see that. They don't stop by here anymore."

"Why not?"

"Who knows?" Curtis sighed. "The circus isn't what it used to be, anyway."

Clint smiled ruefully. "Yeah." But he wasn't done with his questions. "So, whatever happened to them?"

"Last I heard, an' this was a few years back, they've become this rinky-dink little one-ring act." Curtis frowned at him. "Why the questions?" Then, his face lit up again. "_That's_ where you two ended up!"

Clint shrugged, not denying it.

Curtis shook his head. "Ran away from the Willoughbys to join the circus. Ain't that a cliché?"

"Maybe a little," Clint agreed. "Wasn't what I intended. I didn't leave _to _join the circus. It just happened."

"So it was _you_ who instigated the whole thing?" Curtis asked. "Willoughby thought so, but I never put much stock in it. You were a good kid, Clint. I hated seein' what Old Man Willoughby did to you."

_Then why didn't you try to stop it?_ Clint wondered silently. Instead of voicing the question, he met the man's eyes. "I like to think I'm a good man, now, Curtis."

"That ya are," Curtis agreed. "Waverly's own superhero."

Clint narrowed his eyes, wondering if Curtis had some form of Alzheimer's or something. Instead, he pulled money from his wallet to pay his tab and leave a tip before pushing to his feet. Then, he stuck out his hand. "It was good to see you again, Curtis."

Curtis looked up at him and shook his hand. "Yeah, you, too." He glanced at the door. "Don't wait so long to come back."

Clint nodded. "Yeah." He thanked the waitress for his meal with a smile and headed for his truck. It seemed he had his work cut out for him because finding Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders might take longer than he'd anticipated. He drove directly to Waverly's public library and used their computers to log onto the internet. His time with SHIELD—and SHIELD's impressive technology—made these computers seem slow, but he eventually found a miniscule reference to the circus. While it didn't have an actual website, someone had posted their schedule according to one of the showgirls who had slept with him. Clint grinned at that, seeing the farce for what it was. The girl had likely ripped the guy off and left him with a massive hangover. Clint knew that grifting and theft came part and parcel with working for Carson's Carnival.

His eyes traced down the screen, noting dates and times with unerring accuracy. He memorized the schedule and logged out of the computer, nodding to the elderly librarian on the way out. She glared at him over the tops of her glasses, but he ignored it. Back in his truck, he turned toward Cedar Falls and drove about five miles down the road.

The field where Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders had set up was still there, the marks left by the circus tents long since faded. Clint climbed from his truck, circling the area and absently noting the place where he slipped under the tent. His life had changed so drastically in this one, little field. It had nothing to recommend it beyond being big enough to house the circus. But something bigger had happened here than just a show. Clint Barton had taken the first steps toward becoming Hawkeye.

Knowing he'd find nothing to help him here, Clint turned his back on the field and again climbed into his truck. He had a long night ahead of him if he wanted to arrive in Milan, Tennessee. Carson's seemed to favor small towns, and Clint knew this hunt could take a very long time.

In the end, it took him a month. He drove into Milan, Tennessee, only to find the circus gone and no one really knowing where it went. No one really cared anymore. In each town he visited, he found indifference and wondered if so few people truly appreciated the circus. Yes, the shows were gaudy and loud and childish in a way, but the performers were truly skilled people. Acrobats put their lives on the line to practice bigger and better stunts while animal trainers spent hours teaching animals to perform. Some of them actually loved the animals they trained.

On the four hour drive from Malvern, Arkansas, to Tahlequah, Oklahoma, Clint spotted a familiar vehicle in his rearview mirror. He carefully watched the beat up SUV wind its way between cars, always staying within sight of his truck. A scowl touched his features as he considered his options. He could continue driving and ignore that gut feeling, or he could listen to the voice in his head—the voice that sounded like _him—_and lose the tail. Traffic had picked up as he neared Fort Smith, Arkansas, so he decided on the second option.

Crossing two lanes of traffic and hearing the horns blare in response, Clint unexpectedly exited the highway. The SUV following him cut off another car but missed the exit. Clint wound his way through Fort Smith, never truly getting lost but randomly picking turns and alleys. He drove through the seedier parts of Fort Smith, not in the least put off by the glares he received from various people. After two hours of this, he found his way back to a nearby road and took the back streets to Van Buren, where he got on I-40 toward Oklahoma City. The sun was setting, but he kept an eye out for any sign that his convoluted trail had been followed. Breathing a sigh of relief when he didn't spot the SUV again, he settled in for the rest of the drive.

Over the next three weeks, Clint crisscrossed much of the Midwest and finally drove down into the Southwest. He found no discernible pattern in the circus's route save that it seemed completely random. That SUV, however, consistently found him. He started taking more circuitous routes to his destinations, stopping so that he could draw his tail out of the shadows, and trying to identify the driver. He even considered calling Natasha but decided to wait. He needed to do this on his own, to figure out why this guy—if it was a guy—was stalking him. Everything he did to draw the guy out failed, and it just gave him a mystery that needed to be solved.

At one rest stop in Oklahoma, he took the time to search his truck for a tracking device. He had taken a frequency detector from his room in Stark Tower and now thanked whatever power had reminded him of it. He found one attached to the rear bumper and stomped on it with his combat boot to destroy it. After that, he made it a habit to search his vehicle any time he left it for an extended length of time. After finding one other tracking device, obviously planted while he'd been in a restaurant eating a hot meal, he changed his habits. He rarely left his vehicle and took more and more convoluted routes to his destinations. He started sleeping lighter as if on a mission and knew he couldn't go on like this for four months. To make matters worse, dreams of Loki and Old Man Willoughby woke him with alarming regularity. It became easier to just sleep in the truck rather than risk waking anyone in a hotel with his shouts.

Clint finally caught up to Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders in Tularosa, New Mexico. The tiny town boasted two bed and breakfasts, but Clint found only one open at the time he arrived. He caught the owner just as she was closing down for the evening, and she happily accepted his rent for the next week. He wearily carried his gear up the stairs and into his room with a sigh. Days of evading that mysterious SUV, of hunting for Carson's Carnival, and of not knowing where his route would take him next wore on him. He dug clean clothes from his bag, took a quick shower, and collapsed into the bed for the night. For the first time since leaving Waverly, he slept soundly and stirred only as the sun peeked over the mountains.

He never knew the driver of that SUV also pulled into Tularosa and rented a room at a run-down motel four blocks away.

~TBC


	3. Searchin' For Answers

**Author's Note:** Big thanks to all those who reviewed, especially to **Jessica **as I can't respond via PM. They're all appreciated!

Also, this chapter features one of several characters from the comic books. As I have no knowledge of the comic books beyond what little I read online, I freely admit these characters are probably OOC. Apologies if that upsets you, and I hope you enjoy the chapter! ~lg

oOo

Clint stirred as the sun's warmth crept across his face. He threw one arm over his eyes and allowed himself to doze for a few more moments. This was something he'd tried doing since leaving New York: taking time to become aware of his surroundings instead of just jerking himself awake. The bright New Mexico sun still invaded his sleep, and he finally cracked his eyes open just enough to glare at the window. Antique blue curtains framed the windowpanes, giving the scene an idyllic feel that stole Clint's anger within seconds. He threw back the blankets and padded barefoot to the window, scratching his head with one hand while rubbing his eye with the other.

The scene out the window made him smile. A small vineyard had been planted next to the bed and breakfast, the sun's rays catching on the leaves as a warm summer breeze made them move slightly. The nearby mountains caused the light to scatter, breaking the brightness with hints of shadows. Clint watched it for several moments, absorbing the peaceful vista. For the first time since waking on the helicarrier, he had slept through the night without dreams. He didn't know if it was his distance from New York, his own exhaustion, or his search for answers. It really didn't matter at this point.

Fully awake and anxious to get out for the day, Clint turned toward the bathroom and the promise of a long, hot shower. He sorted through his duffel bag, marking clothes that needed to be washed while selecting the outfit that was in the best condition for the day. He didn't have much outside of his work attire, so most of his clothes consisted of gray or black t-shirts, black jeans, and combat boots. Thankfully, no one would look a second time at him for wearing such clothes, and he decided to leave the fingerless gloves he loved so much behind for now.

After a shower that steamed up the bathroom, Clint used a dry washrag to wipe the mirror so he could see. Then, he considered his face. For the last week, he'd driven across three different states, stopping to sleep only when his body absolutely needed it and not bothering with things like shaving. He wasn't out to impress anyone, anyway. Now, he frowned. Changing his appearance was an easy way to throw someone off his scent. Besides, he needed a haircut. His hair had grown quite a bit since leaving New York, and he wasn't fond of the shaggy look. That was more Thor's look...or Banner's.

Decision made, Clint quickly shaved, making certain to leave a goatee behind. He doubted he'd find a barber shop in this small town willing to do the edgy hairstyle he wanted, and he shrugged. He needed supplies anyway, and it wouldn't take long to drive one town over. A quick glance into his room at his woefully empty duffel bag made him sigh. Some clothes wouldn't hurt, either.

Downstairs, Clint found his hostess serving up a full breakfast with a smile. He blinked. "You didn't have to do this."

"It comes with the room." The elderly woman shrugged. "Besides, it's been too long since I had someone to cook for."

"At least join me?" Clint wondered where the invitation came from but decided it didn't matter when he saw the way her eyes lightened.

"Thank you, Mr. Barton, I'd like that."

"Just 'Clint.'" He grinned, already liking her.

"I am Mary," she said in a matter of fact tone as she chose a chair at the table and started pouring coffee from a silver carafe. "What brings you to Tularosa?"

Clint quickly debated what to tell her and opted for the truth. "I'm here to see some old friends. They moved here recently, and I decided to surprise them."

Mary dimpled at that. "I'm sure it will be a wonderful surprise, then."

Clint nodded his agreement, less enthusiastic than Mary. Would anyone he knew from the circus still be there? He knew Marcella Carson, the owner's daughter, likely ran things now. If she was still in the business. Times had changed, and carnies weren't as popular as they'd been when he was a kid.

Breakfast ended in companionable silence as Mary pulled out a large-print Bible while Clint made his excuses. He slipped upstairs, grabbed his keys, and waved goodbye to the grandmotherly woman still at the dining table. The drive to Alamogordo took twenty minutes, and Clint blinked as he remembered he _had_ been to New Mexico before. Those few moments watching Thor take out the best-trained agents in SHIELD seemed so long ago, now. Just another dark night in a string of black moments.

This area of New Mexico was different. Clint took a deep breath and let it out as he looked over the Sacramento Mountains and mesquite-dotted desert. He made plans to take a hike in those mountains, hoping to find a spot to practice archery without an audience. He'd found several target ranges in his travels, but he drew so much attention with his normal training regimen that he preferred to be alone. After all, having someone throw a bunch of tennis balls into the air just so he could pin them to the wall with his arrows was pretty extreme.

In Alamogordo, he found a hair salon just outside what passed for their mall. The stylist listened to his ideas for his hair and then went to work. By the time she finished, he sported a look that could be tamed back into his typical military-esque style but now stood on end thanks to hair gel. After paying, he walked quickly across the parking lot and into the mall. The smell of Chinese food assaulted his senses right away in spite of seeing a _Mexican_ place first. Shaking his head at the irony, Clint walked through the mall, headed for the larger department stores that bookended the place. _This is more like a hall_, he mused. _Nothing like the malls back in New York._

It took very little time to pick out several pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, and other necessities, and Clint headed back to his truck. As he walked, he studied it. The truck wasn't flashy or even remarkable. Just a black Ford pickup that _he_ happened to be driving. The _only_ reason he was being tailed was because someone recognized _him_.

At the truck, he pulled his frequency scanner from his pocket and quickly checked it. Nothing. Content that, to his knowledge, he'd not been followed to New Mexico, he slid behind the wheel and turned the truck toward the local Wal-Mart. He really did like this truck and how it handled on the road, and he would have hated to leave it abandoned in a parking lot because he needed to shake a tail. But, if it meant life or death, he would.

At Wal-Mart, Clint spent a bit of time browsing for accessories before heading to get a few groceries. Sometimes, the easiest way to "disappear" was to change his appearance ever so slightly. If his tail was searching for a clean-cut, clean-shaven man in black or gray, he'd be more likely to overlook a man with a goatee, spiky hair, wearing rings, beads around his wrist, a chain, and t-shirts. Carriage also mattered, Clint knew. He smirked as he remembered one time he and Coulson escaped because _Clint_ wore the suit and _Coulson_ looked like the homeless guy down the road. Their pursuers never looked once after Clint gave them an off-handed, dismissive glance like any other wealthy businessman.

Back in Tularosa, Clint parked his truck at the B&B, slipped upstairs to drop his new purchases on his bed, and then reached for his bow. He'd also picked up a high-quality backpack that was large enough to house his collapsed bow and a small quiver. Clint didn't have a _small_ quiver, so he took a few moments to work out a makeshift one. To the normal observer, he'd be just a young punk heading to see the circus. . .or so he hoped. He'd begun to doubt his ability to pull of "young" after seeing his face in the mirror that morning.

The days on the road were beginning to pull on him, and Clint ran a hand over his face as he once again left the B&B. Mary spotted him and reminded him of dinnertime at five that evening. Clint checked his watch and realized he had four hours before then. Leaving his truck at the B&B, he turned toward the field where he'd spotted the circus tent. It took less than ten minutes to walk toward it at a steady but reserved pace. The circus tent filled up one corner of a small baseball field lined by evergreen trees. Eighteen-wheelers had been parked along one end while the carnies walked about and in general prepared for the evening.

Clint remembered those days. He watched the circus closely from behind his sunglasses as he let the memories overtake him. When Carson's Carnival arrived in any new town, he'd often slipped away, getting a feel for the people who lived there based on their businesses, where they lived, and what little of their lives he could see through the windows of their homes. Then, he spent his days tailoring his act to suit what he observed. Buck had taught him how to do that, and he still used the skill in his work for SHIELD.

Pushing away the memory of Buck Chisholm for another day, Clint finished his walk past the circus. In addition to the memories, he'd noted all the different approaches to the field, paths of escape, and where the shadows would be thickest if he sensed so much as someone staring at him. He could follow Carson's to the next town if necessary. His safety was more important.

His mind still mapping out his ingress and egress routes, Clint frowned and blinked at a faded yellow sign on the other side of the highway. "Tularosa Archery, one block." An arrow pointed down the street. Rather than returning to the B&B like he'd planned, he quickly crossed the four-lane highway and headed for the large gravel parking lot. Like anywhere else in this desert, it was dry and dusty and showing signs of recent rains. From what he'd picked up while in Alamogordo, September, particularly early September, was the rainy season. It seemed he'd arrived just in time to catch a break from the heat.

Now, he surveyed the rundown archery range, deciding he could spend several hours there the next day just to hear the satisfying _thwump_ of an arrow hitting its target.

Turning back to the B&B, Clint finished his walk at a brisk pace and slipped back upstairs. Shedding his persona for just a few moments, he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He was so tired, so ready for some true rest. He cracked his eyes open and peered at his watch. Two hours. . . .He still had two hours before dinner.

Surrendering to the pull of sleep, Clint rolled onto his side so he faced the door and slipped a knife under his pillow. The last thought he had was that he hoped he didn't attack Mary when she knocked to tell him the evening meal was ready.

oOo

The sun was beginning to set as Clint joined the line heading into the circus tent. A large number of people showed up for the performance, much to his surprise. In recent years, the circus had fallen out of favor in light of reality TV and other, more modern choices of entertainment. Back in New York, he and Coulson had gone to the circus a time or two for old times' sake, but it had never been the same since Clint left. Now, he paid his ten dollars and carried his backpack into the tent. Finding a spot to sit was easy, and his experienced eyes roamed over those gathered.

He didn't see anyone suspicious. In an environment like this, however, that was relative. The tent was crowded with parents escorting excited children, teens wanting to fade into the shadows, and others just looking to get out of the house. Most of the adults wore bored or tired expressions, and the talking just grew louder as more people arrived. Very little apparently happened in Tularosa for a one-ring circus to draw this crowd.

"Ladiiiiiies and Gentlemen! Children of all ages!"

Clint grinned at the woman's voice booming over the loudspeakers. His eyes swept the performance area and easily found her striding out to her spot. She wore a white blouse with black breeches, a red coat with tails, and the traditional black top hat. Clint recognized her immediately anyway. _So, Marcy's still running the place._

As Marcella Carson introduced the first act, Clint allowed the memories to sweep him seventeen years into the past. Actually, he frowned as he realized it had been longer than that. He had left Carson's Carnival at sixteen, after Marcy said she didn't like him. As an adult, Clint shook his head at the hormonally-driven act, but it had ultimately brought him to this place in his life. Marcy had been his first love, his first kiss, and his first heartbreak—romantically, anyway. Clint had followed her around like a lost puppy dog after his brother left the circus to join the military. For a time, the pair of them had been close. They had several acts together, though Marcy never truly understood his fascination with acrobatics and archery. She'd always been into the showmanship of being the ringmaster. Which, he supposed, had made perfect sense.

As the circus progressed, Clint remembered what it felt like to be on the trapeze, flying through the air and flipping with his bow tucked next to his body. He recalled the pride he took when he heard the crowd gasp as his foot dramatically slipped off the high wire while he "struggled" to fire an arrow at a moving target. As he'd grown older and more skilled, his acts became more complicated and took more and more practice. Even at fourteen, Clint had been a prodigy with the bow, and his rudimentary skills at escaping the Willoughby House were honed until he could jump off of almost anything and not worry about landing. He'd proven that in the battle for New York. Of course, crashing through that window and then landing on his quiver had taken the elegance from his arrival, but he was still proud of his ability to flow with whatever life threw at him.

Other memories rose to the surface as the circus went on. He didn't really want to remember the night that Jacques nearly killed him or the scars he still carried from that incident. Nor did he want to recall racing after the bus that carried his brother away from him. He'd been fourteen when Barney left—when he'd been turned over to the world at large and told to survive. So, he had. No matter what anyone did to him, Clint Barton found a way to make it through.

The circus ended, and he stood to allow others in his row to file out. But he wanted to speak with Marcy, to have some sort of contact with someone from his past. So, he lingered in the shadows until most of Tularosa's residents had vacated the tent. The circus performers swarmed the ring, taking down the equipment needed for their acts as Marcy oversaw everything. He waited, knowing she would sense him sooner or later.

And she did. She turned, her eyes narrowed. "Show's over. It's time for you to go home."

Clint grinned at the toughness in her voice. Circus life wasn't for the weak, and she'd likely had her fair share of attackers and hecklers as the years passed. Instead of creating more chaos, he stepped out of the shadows and shrugged. "Hello, Marcy."

Her eyes widened. "Clint?" Then, a very unladylike curse word came out of her mouth. "I thought. . . .You ran off!"

Clint nodded sheepishly. "Yeah, I did."

She moved across the distance between them and hugged him tightly. Clint returned the hug, knowing it was simply old friends reconnecting. The contact felt good, and he smiled when he pulled away. "You haven't changed a bit."

Marcy scoffed. "You have _no_ idea." She waved a hand, inviting him to meet the rest of the cast. "We tried putting an archery act in, but no one could hold a candle to you so I let it slide."

Clint shifted the backpack over his shoulder. "Maybe it's for the best."

"Whatever did happen to you?" She peered up at him. "You just up and left without sayin' goodbye. Had all of us worried, especially Buck."

He wasn't able to stop the way his shoulders stiffened at that man's name. "I had my reasons." He shrugged. "I wound up at the Coney Island Circus until I was eighteen."

"What happened then?"

"Got a real job." The lie slipped easily off his tongue, so well-practiced that he never thought about it. At eighteen, he'd gotten a _new_ job, but not one that was technically legal.

Marcy nodded at that. "Well, you seem to be doing alright for yourself," she said, pointedly glancing at the silver rings he wore.

He didn't let it bother him. "So, you're still running this place?"

This time, she snorted. "If you say so." She shook her head. "I'm considerin' shutting the whole thing down, honestly. Dad left me enough to keep us afloat but little else what with. . . ." Her eyes grew wide. "Ancient history, anyway."

Clint appreciated how she didn't mention Jacques Duquesne and the night he nearly killed a thirteen-year-old kid. That had been a year before Barney left, and Clint had watched his tenuous relationship with his brother fall apart without knowing why. Now, he nodded. "I'm alright, though. I came out okay."

She simply nodded and then proceeded to introduce the other members of the circus. Marcy pointedly dropped the phrase "The Amazing Hawkeye," and suddenly the single women eyed Clint speculatively while the men glared. Finally, he leaned toward Marcy. "What did you tell them about me?" he whispered from the corner of his mouth.

"Only the truth," she said sweetly before patting his arm. Then, she grinned impishly. "Mind givin' 'em a demonstration? Because they're itchin' for it even if they're not sayin' anything."

Clint couldn't stop the smirk that turned into a massive grin. "You have a bow?"

"Not here," Marcy admitted.

"No problem." He unzipped his backpack and pulled out his personal bow, enjoying how Marcy's eyes widened when he snapped it open.

For the next two hours, he demonstrated his circus skills. He didn't take on any of the trapezes or high wires. But he did get someone to toss a bunch of tennis balls just so he could shoot them and prove to himself that he could.

oOo

After another breakfast with Mary—one where Clint emptied the coffee pot thanks to a late night with Marcy and no sleep between the dreams—he set out for the field. Marcy had admitted that the circus was moving out the next day, and Clint had agreed to help them tear everything down. He'd started in Carson's as a roustabout, anyway, and the exercise would feel great. Marcy welcomed him with a cup of "her special brew," and Clint choked. "You said coffee!" he croaked.

Marcy shrugged. "Thought I'd add some sweetener."

"_Some_ sweetener! Not the whole bottle!" Still, he took another sip of the coffee-laced Irish whiskey and then set the cup aside. Marcy smirked and, a few moments later, picked up the cup he'd obviously decided to abandon. Clint ignored her and spent the day working to get Marcy on the road. Within an hour, all the coffee he'd drank at the B&B hit, and his hands shook minutely from the caffeine rush. He tried to ignore the urge to chatter constantly. Natasha always smacked him upside the head when he got like this, and he reminded himself why he liked his coffee so strong. One cup of his brew usually woke him up no matter how little sleep he'd had and didn't overload his system with caffeine.

By mid-afternoon, the rush had worn off, and Clint stood back as the truck drivers climbed into their vehicles. The only signs of the circus left were the imprints on the ground and the inevitable animal droppings which were being disposed of right then. He'd shed his leather coat and fingerless gloves around ten that morning, and his gray t-shirt clung to his back from sweat. Marcy walked to Clint's side, her face pensive as she held out a small piece of paper.

He smiled and reached to hug her. "It's really good to see you again, Marcy."

"You, too," she agreed as she hooked her chin over his shoulder. Then, she held out the paper. "Don't be a stranger."

He nodded and immediately memorized the cell number she'd written down. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he wrote his down number and offered it to her. Meeting her eyes, he made certain she knew exactly how serious he was. "You need anything. . .call me. _Anything_, Marcy. I don't care if it's good or bad."

She narrowed her eyes. "You've changed a lot, Clint. For the better, I think. But the way you say that makes me wonder about what you're doing."

"I'm making a difference. That's what matters."

She nodded. "Good. That's all most of us wanted, anyway." She turned to go and then stopped. "Before I go, I gotta tell you. Buck's dead. Cancer."

"I know."

"What about Jacques?"

Clint gave her a tight smile. "He's dead, too." Shaking his head, he halted her questions. "No, I didn't have anything to do with that, and no, you don't want to know. But he's not going to come back. Ever."

Marcy stared at him. "Maybe you'll tell me about it one day."

"Maybe I will." Clint stepped back and raised a hand. "Be safe," he said, unconsciously mimicking Natasha's words to him when he left New York.

"You, too." Marcy turned away and climbed into the passenger seat of one of the eighteen-wheelers. A few seconds later, all that was left of her were tire impressions and the smell of diesel.

oOo

_Clint raced through the circus, dodging around this tent and that animal cage. He'd been here, working as a roustabout, for a year, now. In that time, he and Jacques, the man who found him and Barney in the woods, had taken him under his wing. Clint loved Jacques and felt accepted by the man, but trust had been a little slow in coming. It wasn't until Jacques put a bow in Clint's hands and then told him to train with Buck that Clint settled into his role._

_Now, because of his role, he needed to get away. His breath came in spurts as he put every bit of strength he had into reaching Mr. Carson's tent. He needed to hide, to breathe, to tell everything he'd seen and heard. But he couldn't seem to put enough distance between himself and his infuriated mentor._

_His toe caught on a rope anchoring the main tent to the ground, and Clint found himself face down in the dirt. He rolled over, lifting his hands to shield his face, as Jacques caught up to him. He'd had a lot of experience with being beaten, and he now instinctively curled into himself as his mentor—the Swordsman and man who had won Clint's trust—now kicked and pounded until Clint could not breathe._

"_Please!" The word came out in a gasped whisper. Clint tasted blood and bile, having already thrown up his dinner after one well-placed kick. He rolled onto his back, his eyes pleading with his attacker. "Please!"_

_The Swordsman had turned away for a moment, but when he looked back, he wore an arrogant smirk. Right before Clint's eyes, he morphed into a man wearing a golden helmet with two horns, holding a scepter with a glowing blue jewel. "Please, what, Agent Barton? Kill you? Oh, I have more important ways for you to amuse me than that."_

Clint woke in a crouch next to his bed, his knife held in front of him as he prepared to fight Loki's memory. It took ten minutes for the specter to fade, and he found himself huddled in a corner, shivering as the night air ran over his sweat-soaked body. He'd had dreams that shook him that badly, but he'd never been in a bed and breakfast where his hostess wouldn't understand what haunted him. So, he drew his knees up to his chest and draped his arms over them, burying his face as he held the knife loosely in his hand.

He had known visiting the circus would stir up the memory of the night Swordsman tried to kill him. If it hadn't been for Barney, Clint would have died at thirteen. As it was, Mr. Carson was forced to take him to the nearest hospital for treatment. Clint had sustained a broken arm, broken and cracked ribs, and bruising on his internal organs. The doctor said one more kick would have caused a rib to puncture his lung, and Clint supposed he was glad Barney chose that moment to charge Jacques Duquesne in a fit of brotherly protection.

Clint absently ran his hand over the tiny scar on his ribs. He couldn't even feel it through his t-shirt, but he knew where it was. Other scars had taken precedence on his body, and he rarely allowed anyone—even Natasha—to see him without his shirt. While she didn't care, he hated the questions and sympathy that inevitably arose when others saw him.

Suddenly, the room was too small, and Clint pushed to his feet. He'd already circled the house under the pretense of exploring the grounds and knew that a rather sturdy trellis ran up the building not far from his window. It would take a bit of stretching to get there, but he didn't mind. After stowing several more knives on his person, he slid the window open and landed on the ground a few seconds later. He didn't want Mary to know he'd left or why, so he quickly calculated how much time he had to run.

Then, he ran. It only took a few moments to reach the field where he'd reconnected with his circus years, and he didn't try to push away the memories this time. Jacques and Buck were dead. They couldn't hurt him anymore. He was free from them. And from Loki. _That_ particular nightmare was still on Asgard, still waiting for justice to be done to him.

Clint felt like a child for repeating those words to himself, but the memories were too close. He recalled the night he learned of Jacques's death. It had been shortly after his arrival at SHIELD. He and Coulson had been on a mission and returned to base in time to find out that another agent had nearly been compromised. Some bystander had spotted him and tried to take him down with a sword. Clint had perked up at that, his old training under Swordsman making him see the scene as clear as day. His heart sank, however, as the other man described his attacker's technique. Clint had confirmed it a moment later when the agent's handler produced a criminal file. Jacques Duquesne, a.k.a. The Swordsman; wanted in three states for murder and suspected of embezzlement from the various establishments where he'd worked over the years. Clint had simply stared at the handler when, in a very cold voice, the man informed him and Coulson that the Swordsman no longer existed.

The cool night air whipped past Clint's face as he ran. Slowly, the memories slipped back into their rightful places, letting him slow down enough to catch his breath. He'd run the full length of Tularosa and now stood on the side of the highway at the south end of town. A Shell station glittered in the darkness, it's yellow lights showcasing the closed convenience store. Clint bent over, his hands on his knees, as he drew air into his lungs. It wasn't that long of a trip back to the B&B from here, but he'd run hard enough that his legs shook. He knew it was as much from adrenaline as exertion, and he bent his knees to stretch his muscles for the jog back.

A rustle behind him made the hair on his neck stand on end. He turned slowly, looking for a predator of the two or four-legged variety. He didn't expect the voice that came out of the shadows. "Hey, buddy!"

Clint didn't think. He just reacted. The form came at him, and he used one of Natasha's moves to plant the man on his back on the hard pavement, one hand around the guy's throat. A gurgling sound reached his ears as the guy patted his shoulder with one hand while tapping the ground with the other. Clint blinked, the lights from the Shell station catching his "attacker's" face. He scowled and then scrambled backward.

"Barney?"

~TBC


	4. Who Am I?

**Author's Note:** Okay, this chapter is where I start to veer away from comic book canon. Just a heads-up for that as we're going to start seeing how Clint goes from carnie to SHIELD agent. . .the first steps, anyway.

_Twelve_ reviews for the last chapter?! Thanks, especially to those I can't respond to personally!

**jessica:** I knew that reveal was kind of transparent, but the point wasn't the mystery at that moment. It was the angst. :D I'm a sucker for good angst.

Hope you all enjoy the new chapter! ~lg

oOo

Barney Barton was in Tularosa.

Clint blinked at his brother, trying to put everything in place mentally. He still hadn't fully recovered from that nightmare about Jacques and Loki before Barney approached him, so he felt as if he'd just been rather rudely awakened. For a few moments, he simply paced away while Barney sat up, coughing.

Then, Barney cursed. "You got some _skills_, buddy."

"_Don't_ call me that!" Clint whirled to face him. "I'm not your buddy."

"Okay. Little brother?" Barney held up his hands when Clint narrowed his eyes. "Fine. Your call."

"Why are you here, Barney?" Clint folded his arms across his chest.

"I couldn't come to see you?"

"You could have come to New York anytime for that."

"I tried. They told me you were gone."

"They?"

"Yeah, uh. . . .your landlady."

Clint rolled his eyes. When he'd closed down his apartment after the Council's acquittal, he'd intended to find a new place closer to downtown. Besides, everything about his life before Loki seemed to mock his current state of mind. So, without Natasha or anyone else knowing, he'd paid the remainder on his lease, put everything into storage, and lived from place to place for a time. The anonymity soothed his mind after seeing the suspicious glares on the helicarrier. It was one reason he wanted to get away for these four months.

Now, he started putting things together. "You were tracking me."

"Guilty." Barney held his hands out to his sides, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "Of course, you found my first tracker a little quicker than I'd intended."

"_First_ tracker? There were more than the two I found?"

"Just the two."

"Why?"

"Why was I following you?" Barney instantly sobered. "I need your help, little brother."

Clint blinked a couple times at his brother before turning and starting his jog back to the B&B. There was no way on this earth he planned to help his brother with anything, least of all to get into trouble. The last time he'd heard of Barney, the FBI had told him his brother had died. He had done a short investigation then, primarily to satisfy his own curiosity, and had figured out that Barney wasn't really dead. When he'd learned that, he'd shrugged. If his estranged brother wanted to fake his own death and live a lie, that was fine with Clint. After all, he wasn't a pillar of virtue or even a good man. Not the way Steve was.

"Hey!" Barney's indignant voice interrupted his thoughts. "I ask for your help, and you walk away?"

Clint paused, jogging in place. "No. I _jogged_ away. Big difference."

"Really? How's that different?"

"It's faster than walking." Clint turned and again left his brother behind him.

Footsteps warned him that Barney had caught up. His brother grabbed his shoulder and forcibly turned him around. "Will you just listen to me?"

"Why?" Clint stepped toward Barney and virtually hissed. "You never listened to me, never even gave me a single thought when you left. Why should I do the same now when you're in some kind of trouble? Or was faking your death not enough for you?"

"I was _working_," Barney hissed back. "Don't _you_ understand that?"

Clint laughed suddenly. "Yeah, working in such a way that you needed to _die_? Try a different line, Barney."

"Clint, listen to me."

"No, you listen to me!" Clint glared at his brother, his voice so low Barney could barely hear him. "_You _walked away. _You_ made your choices. Whatever you're involved in, _you _need to work it out and let me get on with my life." Rather than jogging away, he turned and stalked.

Barney's voice reached him just before he rounded the corner. "It's hard to get on with life when you've got nightmares still open and chasin' you."

Clint froze. He knew a thing or two about that, understood what it felt like to struggle with memories that he could do nothing about. He closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. The sky had started to lighten, and Mary would be stirring soon. He needed to get back to the B&B, sneak back into his room, and pretend to have just awakened. Not arrive worn out from an emotional run and a rocky reunion with his older brother.

But Barney's words hit home. Clint had been crisscrossing the United States, trying to find that place where he could think and sleep without Loki rearing his ugly head. Ironically, he'd started where the nightmare began—Waverly. He had been haunted by memories of his entire life and knew he would continue to deal with them until he laid a few to rest.

Maybe it was a good thing Barney had showed up. Clint could deal with that particular nightmare once and for all.

Heaving a sigh, he turned and frowned at his brother. "Where're you staying?"

Barney grinned, clearly recognizing Clint's change of heart. "The Knotty Pine Motel."

Clint frowned for a moment until he registered where he'd seen the sign. Just a few blocks from his B&B. "Go back to your room and wait there. I'll come over later today."

Barney nodded. "Alright! I'll have us drinks an' maybe some companions."

"Just us, Barney," Clint warned. "This is a small town, and I don't do that."

Barney smirked. "Fine."

Clint watched his brother walk away, a frown on his face. The last time he'd seen Barney, his brother had been a strapping young man of eighteen. Taller than Clint by three inches, his work in the circus had hardened his body and developed his stamina so that he had been admitted into the Army almost too easily. And that had completed the severing between the brothers.

Clint shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut in an all-too-familiar manner as he pushed the memories away. He needed time to think. Barney's arrival and their subsequent disagreement had multiplied the headache he already had.

Since Mary was already up, Clint slipped back into the B&B and headed upstairs. He looked like he'd been out for a run and hoped his hostess wouldn't ask too many questions. Back in his room, he took a long shower as he allowed the hot water to pound the tension out of his shoulders.

He hadn't laid eyes on Barney Barton in. . . .Clint mentally counted the years. Had it really been twenty-one years since he last saw his brother? Most people would say it had been too long, but not Clint. In his opinion, it hadn't been long enough. He and Barney had always clashed, but their relationship deteriorated after Jacques tried to kill Clint. Barney might have stopped the Swordsman from striking the killing blow, but he always condemned Clint for not sticking by his mentor. According to Barney, Clint thought too much of himself. They weren't good people. They were carnies, kids without any way of proving their citizenship, much less their identity. Clint hadn't even known what a birth certificate was until Barney produced them a year after Jacques's attack. At that time, Clint hadn't understood the significance, but he'd guarded that certificate carefully in the coming years. When he ultimately left the circus, the value in that little piece of paper became very obvious.

As the water sluiced over his body, Clint closed his eyes and allowed himself to remember.

oOo

"_Look what I found!" At eighteen, Barney was still excitable but much more contained than his fourteen-year-old brother. He produced two pieces of paper with a flourish and handed one to Clint. "Didn't even know they existed until a few weeks ago."_

_Clint took the paper, frowning. It was smaller than normal, with a bunch of fancy writing and a raised circular seal. He read the words aloud. "This is to certify that according to records on file in this office that Clinton Francis Barton was born January 7, 1977." Then, he blinked at Barney. "What is this?"_

"_Your birth certificate." Barney rolled his eyes. "It means you're a United States citizen and can get things like medical care and stuff. It also means that we can get out of here!"_

_Clint looked around doubtfully. He didn't necessarily _like_ the circus, but he had friends here, people who cared about him. After Jacques disappeared, Buck took Clint as his apprentice, called him "Hawkeye," and said he made a great assistant for the show. Marcy had hinted that Mr. Carson wanted to make Clint a star, and Clint thought that might be a good thing._

_Now, he squinted at Barney. "I don't know."_

_Barney snickered. "Don't tell me you like it here 'cause I know you don't. Listen." He put his hands on Clint's shoulders, bending down to look the other boy in the eye. "I just got word I've been accepted into the Army. That means food to eat, a roof over our heads. It means we can finally get on with our lives."_

_Clint frowned. The Army? Wasn't that fighting and dangerous? "Barney. . . ."_

"_I know it'll be tough at first, but all good things are tough." Barney shrugged. "I'm leavin' tomorrow, little brother. And I'd like you to come with me."_

_Clint stared up into his brother's face. "To—tomorrow?"_

"_Yep."_

"_But. . . ." Clint looked over his shoulder at the makeshift target he used when practicing his bow. Buck had promised him a special slot in the next night's show, and Clint had been practicing for days. "Tomorrow's when my show is."_

_Barney's face darkened for a moment, but he recovered quickly. "Sometimes," he said almost gently, "leavin' behind somethin' good gives you somethin' better."_

"_But. . . ."_

"_I'm leavin' tomorrow, Clint." Barney's voice had changed, become as firm as Clint ever remembered. "You're welcome to join me on the bus."_

_With that, his brother walked away._

_Clint spent the entire afternoon and evening in a state of shock. He found his bow and some arrows, putting in the time he'd promised Buck he'd use to make certain he didn't goof up during his show. It was the introduction of The Amazing Hawkeye, according to Buck, and since Hawkeye was Trick Shot's sidekick, it needed to be pretty spectacular. Clint didn't know how that went with Marcy saying Mr. Carson wanted to give him his own show, but he wasn't about to say no when he got all the attention for a change._

_But what about Barney? His brother still worked at the circus, still helped set up and take down the tents, and occasionally assisted during the performances. But he had to actually care for animals and be responsible, unlike Clint. Maybe that's why he wanted to leave? Clint wasn't sure, but he didn't want to lose his brother._

_The next morning, Clint woke in his pallet, tired from trying to think through the night. He could take care of himself and had been taking care of himself since his parents died. Barney tried, but they had never really been that close. Besides, being the kid brother was tough, being the _talented_ kid brother was harder. Barney always said he was showing off, that he didn't have to be so good at everything all the time. Clint usually shrugged, not understanding the problem. He wasn't trying to be good, he just _was_ good._

_All through the morning, Barney gave him sidelong glances. Clint knew his brother wanted an answer, but he didn't have one. Finally, Barney appeared with his bag packed and waved goodbye to everyone who cared to notice. Then, he walked down the trail into town._

_Clint watched his brother go, not at all surprised that he'd followed through with his threat. Barney was like that. Clint could depend on him to do what he said he'd do._

_All at once, he understood. If Barney said they'd have a better life, then Barney meant they'd have a better life. Clint raced back to his spot, grabbed the battered suitcase Jacques had given to him when they first arrived at the circus, and threw everything he owned into it. He hesitated briefly, snatching up the bow Trick Shot had given him for that night's show. He could handle not being a star if it meant something better than this._

_Racing through town, Clint prayed with every step that he'd make it to the bus stop on time. He rounded the corner just in time to see the bus pull away. Yelling for it to stop, he started chasing it, making good time at first. Then, the bus picked up speed._

_Clint stared after it, his heart falling, as Barney glanced back one final time. That was the last time he saw his brother._

oOo

"Clint?" Mary's concerned voice pulled him out of the memory. Somehow, he'd managed to get out of the shower, shave, dress, and appear at the breakfast table.

Now, he blinked. "Sorry. Lost in thought."

"I could see." Mary poured him a cup of coffee as he reached for the bowl of eggs she'd placed next to him. "Everything okay?"

Clint debated what to tell her. "Ran into an old friend while out for my run this morning."

"Based on that scowl, I'm thinking this 'friend' wasn't a welcome sight."

_You have no idea,_ Clint thought. Rather than admitting that, he ate a bite of his breakfast. Conversation flowed between the pair at the table, with Mary picking up on Clint's hesitation to talk about said friend. Instead, she commented that her place would likely start filling up as the weather got cooler. She chattered on about the Christmas season, making Clint remember his promise to be back in New York for Christmas.

When breakfast ended, Clint went upstairs, straightened his room, and debated his next steps. He and Barney needed to talk, and Clint did not look forward to that. Deciding that sooner was better than later, he left his room and walked over to Barney's motel.

Finding his brother's room wasn't tough, and Barney offered him a bottle of water. Clint accepted it and took a moment to truly study Barney. His brother stood just over six foot tall, dark hair cut close to his head. But, where Clint's features were round and somewhat "pudgy," as he'd once heard it called, Barney was long and slender. He'd lost a lot of weight since Clint had seen him, and he now looked almost scrawny.

Barney didn't miss the analysis. "Wonderin' what happened?"

"Yeah, Barney, I am." On the walk over, Clint resolved to be as polite as possible. "I'm also wondering why you decided to track me down."

Barney picked up on the unspoken message, nodding and taking a sip of his own water. "Like I said, I need your help."

Clint narrowed his eyes. Barney's joking grin had melted away, and he now stared at Clint with serious eyes. Clint nodded once. "Okay. How?" He sighed. "If you don't give me any kind of information, it's hard to know what to do."

Barney stood and paced to the window. "Seven years ago, I was sent undercover into Egghead's organization."

Clint sat up straighter at that. Elihas Starr, a.k.a. Egghead, was on SHIELD's Most Wanted list for a number of crimes, including selling US secrets to the highest bidder. He'd leaked information on American assets around the globe, once nearly getting Clint killed in the process. "The FBI was investigating Egghead?"

Barney shrugged. "We had word that he was operatin' a cell out o' Atlanta. I was sent in to infiltrate and bring them down." He paused for a moment, taking a long drink of his water as he gathered his thoughts. "Things went well, at first. Then, I was discovered. Still don't know who ratted me out, but that's beside the point. The Bureau yanked me outta there so fast _my_ head spun. And I knew how fast they could move.

"Short while later, we got word that Egghead had put a hit out on me." His eyes slanted toward Clint. "I heard you were even contacted about that."

Clint blinked, truly surprised. "Seven years ago, I was. . . ." Clint frowned as he mentally rolled back the years. "I was in Ireland, working to find a sniper responsible for killing several agents from my organization. We thought he had IRA connections."

"So you didn't. . . ."

Clint shook his head. "Nope."

"Oh." Barney frowned. "Anyway, I had several attempts on my life before I came up with the plan to die. I faked my death and managed to live well for the last several years."

Clint finally put everything together. "But Egghead found you again." He ran a hand down the back of his head. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"I dunno." Barney shrugged. "But I need help, little brother. And, at this moment, I'd rather it be from you than someone I don't trust."

Clint's eyebrows rose. "You _trust_ me?"

"Well, no." Barney waggled his head back and forth. "I hardly know you. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to know. I mean, who _are_ you? Last I heard of Clint Barton, he was wanted for theft from the German government."

"That was a lot of years ago, Barney."

"Exactly!" Barney frowned at him. "After that, you just dropped off the face of the planet. Now, your name's in the news after that attack in New York, you're able to take me down like a pro, and you travel to Ireland to find the killer of a couple agents in some secret organization! Why'd they send you?"

"Think about it," Clint said shortly. "I'm Hawkeye, remember?"

Barney snorted. "Yeah, I remember. Quite well."

Clint bit back the instinctive retort that tried to come out and sighed. He needed to get this conversation back on topic. "So, how'd Egghead find you?"

"I don't know."

"If you don't know, then you can't be sure someone's trying to kill you, Barney."

"Oh, I _know_ they're tryin'," Barney said sarcastically. He yanked his shirt to the side, showing the bandage over his collarbone. "Bein' grazed by a bullet as you're runnin' for your life kinda sends the message home."

Clint ran a hand down his face, trying to think about this objectively and to devise a plan. "Alright, run me through this. Everything, down to the drink you had on the night you were found out. Let's see what we can figure out."

For the next several hours, the brothers talked. Clint listened closely as Barney told his story in its entirety. He knew how Barney had been found out, but he didn't say so. Being aware of triggers that criminals used to find moles made him a good SHIELD operative, but it also meant he wanted to slap some people upside the head for stupid mistakes. From what he could tell, Barney had been careful. Someone had just been a little more careful.

Sometime after lunch, Clint finally let himself out of Barney's room. The two of them needed to move fast if they wanted to stay off Egghead's radar until they could bring the guy down. To do that, though, Clint needed information. A _lot_ of information.

Back at the B&B, Clint paced for several moments before tugging his phone from his pocket. He turned on his shower and slid into the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet. Then, he dialed from memory and listened to the other end ring.

She answered before the third ring. _"Romanoff."_

"It's me." Clint smiled involuntarily at the sound of her voice. He missed his friends more than he realized.

"_Clint!"_ Natasha seemed more enthusiastic than she'd been in a long time. _"How are you?"_

"Good." He nodded. "Listen, I need a favor."

"_Anything."_

"Don't say that until you hear what it is." He frowned. "I need everything SHIELD has on Elihas Starr."

A long pause told him he'd managed to surprise her. Then, she sighed. _"Why?"_

"Friend's in trouble, and he's asking for help."

Natasha paused for another long moment. _"You know I can't just hand over something like that to an off-duty agent, Clint."_

"I know." He ran a hand over his face. "Tasha, it's Barney."

She huffed. _"So, he finally decided to come back from the dead?"_

"No, Egghead resurrected him, so to speak." Clint shook his head to clear the bitter thoughts. "Barney's not gonna come back with me unless I tell him everything, and you know I can't do that. But what I _can_ do is help him get out of this. And maybe apprehend Egghead in the process."

"_Then what, Clint? What'll you do after you put one of SHIELD's Most Wanted behind bars?"_

"Continue with my vacation?" Clint answered with a question of his own. "I know it's not ideal, but it's what needs to happen. Barney needs to stay off the radar for a while, and. . . ."

"_Then bring him in."_

"You know Fury would never authorize me to do that."

"_Who said anything about Fury?"_

"Natasha, you can't just go and do what you want now!" Clint jumped to his feet and let out an explosive breath. "Besides, I didn't call to argue." When she didn't respond, he frowned. "Tasha?"

"_You're right,"_ she growled. _"It's just. . . .This is different. Being in Coulson's office and doing Coulson's job. I'm not supposed to be here. _He_ is."_

Clint nodded his head, hearing the grief in her voice. "I know." He ran a hand through his hair. "How are things back there?"

"_Good."_ Natasha's smile could be heard. _"We're all more or less living at Stark Tower now. Stark insisted on it, and Banner likes it there."_

"What about you?"

"_I like it,"_ she admitted, and Clint smirked. He could just see her sitting behind the desk, not wanting to admit just how much she _did_ like the luxury of Stark Tower. _"I've been meaning to call you, by the way."_

"Yeah? Why?"

"_I found something in Coulson's things."_ Her voice strained, a sure sign she was struggling with her emotions. She only allowed two people to hear that tone: Clint and Coulson. _"Part of it is a letter to you."_

"Me?" Clint blinked. "What's it say?"

"_I don't know. It's sealed, and I didn't open it."_

He nodded again and rattled off his address. "Overnight it to me. I'll be here until then."

"_After that, where will you be?"_

"Depends on what else you send with the letter."

A few moments later, Clint hung up the phone and turned off the shower. Back in the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at nothing. Barney's question from earlier that day ran through his head. _Who are you?_ While he'd meant it in reference to his alias, Clint now asked himself the same question.

_Who am I? Am I the circus performer who laughed and joked with Marcy the other day? Or the operative so jumpy he took down his own brother? Or the kid who still wants his brother's approval? Is that all there is of Clint Barton?_

He couldn't answer that question, and he pushed away Loki's voice that told him he never would.

~TBC


	5. Weary Of My Own Fears

The next morning, Clint left the B&B after breakfast and made his way to the Knotty Pine Motel. Now that he knew of the threat to Barney, he kept a very close eye on anyone who might be following him. The bright morning sun made it difficult to stick to shadows, but Clint managed to get there unseen. He knocked, leaning against the wall right where Barney could see him.

His brother cracked the door, peering outside with one bleary eye. As soon as he saw Clint giving him a patient look, he stepped back and opened the door. "What're you doin' here?"

Clint looked around. He'd been in this room just the day before, sitting on that table and listening to his brother's troubles. Now, beer bottles littered the table top, and Barney looked hung over. As his brother pulled on a wrinkled t-shirt, Clint jammed his hands in his pockets. "Pack a bag. You're getting out of this place."

Barney blinked slowly. "Yeah? Where we goin'?"

"For the moment, we're going to the bed and breakfast where I'm staying." Clint shrugged. "I already told Mary—the owner—that I've got family meeting up with me today, so she's expecting you. Then, you'll sit on the back porch and sober up so we can discuss what we're going to do."

"Bed and breakfast? You mean one of those froufrou places?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "It's not that bad. And Mary's nice. Just don't do or say anything stupid because she goes to church and has seven grandkids. She's not like us."

Barney nodded but continued to stare at Clint. Finally, Clint reached for the suitcase he'd spotted and dropped it on the bed, his message clear. Barney slowly began moving, shoving his belongings into the suitcase with very little concern about organization. Clint watched him closely, seeing the weariness in his movements and the way he kept rubbing his head. So the hangover had set in a touch earlier than it typically did for Clint. Granted, Clint had been trained to work through a hangover.

Barney eventually finished packing and Clint held the door open for him while dropping enough cash on the table to pay for the room for a week. When Barney started to load his suitcase into his SUV, Clint stopped him. "Leave it. They probably already know what vehicle you're driving."

"But I like it," Barney whined.

"Yeah, and I like my truck, too. Which is why we're taking it and not yours." Clint shrugged. "Have you checked _your_ truck for trackers?"

"Much as I can."

Clint sighed and slipped his frequency detector out of his backpack. Barney frowned at that but waited while he scanned the truck. Less than a minute later, Clint bent and pulled a tracking device from beneath the rear tire well. He held it up for Barney to see, also studying it himself. It was advanced, something like SHIELD used when they wanted to slip past most frequency detectors on the market. Barney's eyes widened at the sight, and Clint dropped the device on the ground, stomping on it with the heel of his boot. He stalked past his brother. "Let's go."

Barney stayed silent the entire trip back to the B&B. Clint knew the bright sun was upsetting his hangover and tried to make the walk as short as possible. However, knowing his brother had been tracked to Tularosa changed everything. They needed to move. Soon.

At the B&B, Mary welcomed Barney with a smile and a cup of strong coffee. She'd learned how Clint liked it and, while not as black as his personal preference, had adjusted it for him. Barney sipped the cup, grimacing at the taste, as Clint explained that they'd be gone within the next two days. Mary waved away his apologies, escorting Barney up the stairs to the room next to Clint's. Meanwhile, Clint took a turn around the property, assessing it as a SHIELD agent and not a man on vacation.

There were a lot of trees around the bed and breakfast, something that was both a help and a hindrance. It made getting a line of sight from a distance tough but gave a sniper plenty of perches nearby. It also meant shadows at night would hide anyone who approached. Clint could use that, but he couldn't be on guard all the time. Not like this. When he went undercover, he had a persona set up and, while he needed to watch his back, had some level of protection. Here, he _was_ the protection. But Barney had come to him asking for help, and, no matter how screwed up their relationship was, he refused to turn him away.

He found Barney sitting on the back porch. His brother seemed a bit more alert and now wore clothes that didn't look like yesterday's dirty laundry. He sipped another cup of coffee and watched as Clint approached. The back porch was wide, with two white rockers and a table in between them. Clint spotted the silver coffee carafe and made a mental note to add some extra to Mary's paycheck. The woman was discreet, and he wanted to thank her for that.

Reaching for the empty cup set upside down on the tray, Clint poured himself a cup of coffee and dropped into the other rocker. "What happened to you, Barney?" At his brother's confused look, he shrugged. "After you left. What happened?"

"Now you wanna know?"

"I always did." Clint shook his head. "Look, you might not believe it, but I did try to come along with you. I figured out what you were trying to do. But the bus had already left."

Barney nodded morosely. "I know."

"So why didn't you come back?"

"You think I could?" Barney met Clint's eyes. "Stop thinkin' as a kid for one second, Clint, and put your impressive skills to work. You know as well as I do that it doesn't work that way. It was '91 when I joined up. A year later, I wound up overseas, doing what I'd been trained to do."

"And what was that?" Mentally, Clint did the math and realized that his brother had fought in the Bosnian War. He leaned his elbows on his knees, waiting.

Barney grinned ironically. "Know what they called me in the Army? Trickshot." He laughed. "That's 'cause I could hit any target I aimed at. They realized how good I was with a gun and started trainin' me for jobs where they needed a sharpshooter."

"Trickshot." Clint huffed at the irony. "So, you became a sniper?"

"Yep."

"When you got back, did you ever once think about coming back? Not to stay, of course, but. . . ." Clint cradled his coffee cup in his hands and looked over the rear yard of the bed and breakfast. "I was your brother, after all."

"Yeah, I thought about it." Barney shrugged. "Can't say why I didn't. Just thought that part of my life was closed." He eyed Clint. "And I contacted Marcy."

"Yeah?"

"She said you were gone."

Clint lifted his chin. "I was. I moved on, Barney."

"Guess I did, as well."

The two men were silent for a long time as both of them considered their separate lives. Clint couldn't know what Barney thought, but he knew his brother had been right in telling him to stop thinking like a kid. Any time he looked back on his time in the circus, he always saw it through the eyes of the hurting fourteen-year-old who tried to catch the bus that carried his big brother away from him. After that moment, he'd decided he didn't need family and didn't want family. It took over ten years to change his mind, and Coulson had been the one to do it.

Barney eventually stirred. "So, what _did_ happen to you?"

Clint lifted on shoulder. "Bounced from circus to circus until Buck offered me a job."

"Trick Shot? Offered you a _job_? What sort of job?"

Clint grinned at Barney's disbelief. He'd felt it too. Buck Chisholm was a carnie, through and through. At least, that's what Clint thought as he grew up with the man as his mentor. The moment he reached eighteen, however, all that had changed.

oOo

"_Happy Birthday."_

_Clint whirled at the familiar voice, searching the faces around him until they landed on the one he sought. He grinned when he spotted Buck Chisholm. Out of everyone at Carson's, Buck always kept in touch with him. He enjoyed hearing from his mentor, and the two often shared a beer that Clint had stolen, bribed, or otherwise acquired. Now, he walked toward Buck, and the two men shared a quick hug with Buck slapping Clint on his back._

_Clint frowned. "What're you doin' here?" He looked around. "This ain't exactly the easiest place to find me."_

"_I've been followin' ya since ya left Carson's, boy." Buck fell into step with him, nodding in approval. "Coney Island. Not bad. I'm assumin' the pay's good, too?"_

_Clint shrugged. "When I've got an act. Which is most of the time."_

_Buck stopped walking and looked Clint in the eye. "That's why I'm here, Clint. I've got a proposition for you. A job. But it's not an easy one, and it's not one that just anyone can do."_

_Clint's smile fell from his face. "I'm listenin'."_

_Buck glanced around. "Not here." He slipped a wad of cash and a piece of paper into Clint's hand. "Good seein' ya, boy. Use that to make your birthday special."_

_Clint watched him walk away, automatically hiding the money on his person while keeping the note out to read. He waited until Buck had completely disappeared before glancing down. _Tonight, after your show. Next to the Ferris wheel._ Clint frowned. The secrecy indicated this job might be big. Big enough for Clint to get out of here and do something with his life._

_Dropping the note in a nearby puddle, he went on about his business, trying to forget it was his eighteenth birthday. He'd heard stories of this day, knew it should be a big thing done with families. But he didn't have a family and likely never would. The closest he'd get would be Buck "Trick Shot" Chisholm, a grandmaster archer who taught Clint everything he knew. Buck had even given Clint his stage name._

_That night, Clint forced himself to focus during his act. He'd become so good that he rarely used safety nets, and one mistake could lay him out for weeks with no income. Still, as soon as he was able to stalk out of the big tent, he did. He made his way to the tiny room he called his own and quickly stripped out of his costume. He had very few "normal" clothes, but he didn't need to draw attention to himself. The crowd had gasped and ahhed his performance, and he knew several of them would recognize him trying to slip through those gathered. So, he pulled on a Coney Island t-shirt, pair of corduroy pants, and some shoes he'd found abandoned one night. With his money in his pocket, he turned toward the Ferris wheel._

_Buck waited for him. "Show go well?"_

_Clint shrugged. "As good as ever."_

_Buck nodded. "Okay, so here's the truth. I'm not with Carson's anymore." He paused while Clint absorbed that bit of information. "I haven't been with Carson's for a while, and what I've got is better than this. We need some new people, and I know you've always wanted something more. This is your chance."_

"_What are you talkin' about, Buck?"_

"_I work for the Conglomerate." Buck lowered his voice even more. "We're an organization of international businessmen who seek to. . ." He tipped his head to one side and then the other. ". . .influence the course of politics and other events in the world. Point is, there's a lot of money to be made, and we need someone like you."_

"_You mean a carnie?"_

"_No, I mean someone with your eyes and skills." Buck tapped Clint's head as he said that. "We need someone who can hit any target we give him. Now, it'll take some trainin', but we're willin' to give it. And it'll take work on your part. Can't have you workin' for us without some respectability about you."_

"_Respectability?"_

"_For your cover."_

"_Cover?"_

_Buck rolled his eyes. "Stop bein' an idiot!"_

_Clint grinned, already enjoying the way he could still get under Buck's skin. "So, you're sayin' you've got a job for me—one that pays well—but I've got to quit the circus and live like everyone else?"_

"_That's exactly what I'm sayin'."_

"_Okay."_

_With that one word, Clint's life changed. For the next six months, he divided his time between studying for his GED, getting his personal information straightened out so he had a permanent address in New York City, learning how to be a "normal" person, and learning other skills necessary for his work. He learned the Conglomerate wanted him for a covert operative, someone who could get in and out of places, take things that belonged to his organization, and do it without being noticed. In other words, they wanted him as a spy. Since he didn't have family or friends, Clint took to the work right away, though he wasn't too fond of the way they put his archery skills to work. The first time the Conglomerate sent him to kill someone, he took the shot and then promptly puked his guts. Shooting a _person_ was completely different than shooting anything else, though Clint had tried to tell himself otherwise._

_A year after that night at Coney Island, Clint was sent to infiltrate a lab in Berlin. He arrived, scoped out the place, and chose his cover for the shindig. There was a benefit dinner going on downstairs, so he slipped inside disguised as a waiter. He carried drinks around on a tray for thirty minutes or so before ditching the whole thing and heading for his target. Stark Industries had shipped some tech here, and the Conglomerate wanted it. By now, Clint knew the Conglomerate wasn't some "organization of businessmen." But he didn't care. He had a job, good income, way to use his skills, and the ability to be whatever he wanted to be._

_He had just reached the lab when a flash of black and red caught his eye. Clint blinked, staring into green eyes as surprised as he was. The woman straightened, her beautiful red hair falling around her shoulders and accenting flawless skin and incredible figure. Clint tried not to stare, but she made it impossible._

_Then he saw the piece of technology in her hands. She reacted instantly, launching an attack on him that startled him given the flimsy black dress and high heels she wore. In the end, she walked away with the tech while alarms blared and the security guards chased _him_. He couldn't figure out how it had happened. He just knew that, when he got back to New York, his name and face had been placed on wanted lists while the woman—he later found out she was the Black Widow—walked away with _his_ prize._

oOo

When Natasha's package arrived, it came by SHIELD courier. Clint had taken up a position in the parlor of the house, joining Barney and Mary as they chatted about family. Barney had drawn information about Mary's kids and grandkids out of her, asking well-timed questions that revealed more than she realized while Clint listened. When she turned the tables on Barney, he made up a cover about the two of them running away when they were teens and coming up on the streets of Detroit. Clint played the quiet younger brother, his nose stuck in a book and turning the page every five minutes or so to simulate reading. But he still caught the sympathy on Mary's face and gave Barney credit. His brother knew what he was doing.

The knock seemed loud in spite of the conversation. Mary laid aside her crochet as she pushed to her feet, and Clint instinctively glanced out the window. He and Barney had positioned themselves so they could see the entire front of the house without being seen from outside. As soon as he saw the plain black car, Clint knew what had happened. He gave Barney a nod even as he pushed to his feet.

The courier surprised Mary with his greeting. "Delivery for Agent Barton."

Clint smiled as Mary blinked at him. "Here." He eyed the SHIELD courier, recognizing the cover for what it was. Giving Mary an apologetic glace, he shrugged. "FBI. On vacation."

New respect ignited in her eyes as she left Clint at the door. As soon as she was gone, the courier produced a portable fingerprint scanner. Clint pressed his thumb into it, somewhat surprised. SHIELD didn't use these things for just anyone. And the file was bigger than a packet from Coulson.

Once the scanner beeped that Clint's identity had been confirmed, he handed over the package with a nod. "Have a great evening, Agent Barton."

"Thank you." Back inside the house and courier gone, Clint poked his head into the parlor. "Mary, do you have an office?"

She led him to a room lined with bookshelves and wood paneling. Two leather wingback chairs sat in front of a moderately-sized desk, but the décor made Clint feel like he'd just walked into an office designed by Fury himself. The SHIELD director liked to portray an air of edgy mystery, but Clint had seen some of his personal spaces. They were always richly appointed and reminiscent of a bygone era.

Mary met his eyes. "Agent Barton?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, I'm on vacation. I wanted to leave the job back East."

She nodded. "Good to know."

He stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I wasn't lying, Mary. I came here to meet some old friends. I just wasn't expecting my family to show up."

She patted his hand. "I understand, Clint. My husband was retired Air Force. He had things he couldn't or didn't talk about, as well." With that, she left him alone.

Clint moved over to the desk, carefully breaking the seal on the package as he did so. Then, he blinked at what he found. First, Coulson's envelope with his name clearly written in the agent's precise handwriting. Clint laid that to the side for later, swallowing the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat. Then, he turned to the file.

Natasha had sent him all of SHIELD's information on Egghead. His eyes widened when he realized what he held, and then he snickered at the note Fury had tucked into it. _We really need to discuss the true meaning of 'leave-of-absence.' ~F._

Taking the note for what it was—permission to do what was necessary to help his brother—Clint opened the file and spent the next several hours pouring over maps, intel, what the analysts at SHIELD thought, actual operations that several different agencies had conducted, news on Barney and Barney's supposed death, how his brother had apparently gotten away with some valuable intelligence, and the current goals of Egghead's organization. Finally, he sat back and just absorbed everything he'd read.

Barney poked his head into the room before Clint was finished. "Is it safe?"

Clint waved him inside while packing the more classified files back into the folder. "Do you have any idea what you're involved in?"

Barney laughed as he held out his hands. "This is _me_, little brother! Of course I know!"

"I don't think you do." Clint leveled a glare at Barney. "What did you take from Starr?"

"What makes you think I took anything?"

"One: you're on Elihas Starr's hit list, which means he's got a grudge against you. Two: you came to _me_ for help. Now, I don't know everything you know, but I do realize you don't trust your organization. Otherwise, you'd go to the FBI. Three: _our_ sources inside Starr's organization _know_ you took something." Clint's glare intensified. "What was it?"

Barney simply stared at him.

Clint cursed as he stood and paced over to a window. "Barney, if you don't help me, I can't help you."

"It doesn't matter anymore."

"Yes, it does!" Clint realized he was close to shouting and lowered his voice. "Whatever it is you took, Starr wants it back. Now I'm not an expert on Egghead's organization. He tends to operate domestically while my focus has always been international. But I know enough to realize he wouldn't put as big of a price on your head if you'd just irritated him and ticked him off. I used to _be_ in an organization like his. I know what the different prices on a person's head mean. If you just pissed him off, he'd have sent a low-level mercenary after you, not hired some of the best hitmen in the world."

"It's his niece, okay!" Barney covered his face with his hands, muffling his own voice. He ran his fingers over his eyes and then glared at Clint. "I took his niece."

Clint frowned. "This is personal? I mean, he's after you because you're romantically involved with her?"

"No!" Barney glanced toward the door and then continued in a hushed voice. "I found out he planned to use her as an experiment for technology he'd created. Thing was, it would destroy who she was and what she'd worked so hard to accomplish. So, I hid her away. That's when I was found out and the FBI yanked me out of there."

Clint stared at his brother. _Now_ he had the full story, the real reason why Barney faked his death. "So, you 'died' in order to protect her?"

Barney nodded. "Yeah."

Clint ran a hand over his face and then down the back of his head as he thought. This case was convoluted at best, but he could handle it. He just didn't know if he could handle Barney's secrets. Stepping close to his brother, he spoke in a low, even tone that Natasha called his "don't mess with me" voice. "Barney, you listen to me closely. We can draw Egghead out and take him down for good, but you've got to be level with me. No more secrets. Not about this. Secrets will cost us, and we can't afford to make a mistake because you're trying to protect yourself or anyone else." He paused for a moment. "Got it?"

Barney nodded. "Yeah. Loud and clear."

"Good." Clint moved back to the desk. "Now, I haven't been cleared to give you everything we know about Starr's operation, but I have been allowed to give you some of it. This is an extended operation, Barney. None of this is going to resolve itself within the next week. To draw Starr out of his hole, we're gonna have to play things close to the vest and be patient."

"I kinda figured." Barney dropped into one of the wingback chairs. "I hate this. I've been runnin', afraid they're gonna catch me and find her. I'm so tired of my own fears, and I can't even begin to think about givin' 'em to someone else."

Clint's eyes slanted over to the packet from Coulson, and he nodded. "I hear you." Pulling his mind away from that innocuous but oh-so-important envelope, he sighed. "Let's go over what we know."

oOo

After telling Barney to keep his things packed, Clint watched his brother leave the office and stared at Coulson's letter. He already felt the burn of tears at the back of his eyes and swallowed harshly. His gaze roamed back over the files spread across the desk, seeing maps and notes he had made with his brother's input. Egghead had facilities all over the United States and the world, but recent intel placed the majority of the activity coming out of southern Colorado. It didn't surprise Clint given the region's reputation. SHIELD had a safe house set up in Trinidad, and he planned to move to it within the next twenty four hours.

"_I'm so tired of my own fears."_ Barney's words from a few moments ago rolled around in his head. He really was weary of his fears, of his past, of everything. Some days, Clint just wished he could start over. But life wasn't given to allowing him second chances, so he usually pressed on and buried everything.

His eyes stole back to Coulson's letter. That was one second chance he'd been given. Coulson had reached out when Clint should have died and saved him. Clint had always viewed his acceptance into SHIELD as his new beginning. And it had all been because of one man.

Growling at himself, he reached over and snatched up the packet. Carefully opening it, he pulled out a stack of papers and one sealed envelope. Frowning at it, he tried to recall which SHIELD agent was named "Jennifer," and then he realized that Coulson had written to the cellist. His girlfriend, the woman he loved and had considered leaving SHIELD to marry, though no one but Clint knew that. He held the sealed letter in shaking hands, understanding what Coulson meant by including it in this packet. He wanted Clint to deliver his final words to Jennifer.

Blinking back tears, Clint gently slipped that envelope into the larger one and focused on Coulson's words to him. At first, the letters blurred as he nearly lost control of his frayed emotions, but he forced himself to hold it in. He had a letter just like this written to Natasha. He also had one for Coulson, but he hadn't found the courage to discard it just yet.

_Clint,_

_Yeah, I know I'm writing this kind of letter to you. And, yes, I know it's cliché. After all, it's been done so many times over the years. But, when you think about our line of work, it's good to have one of these. After all, who knows when the worst will happen? And then we leave people behind, things unsaid, and unanswered questions that will haunt our loved ones for the rest of our lives._

_So, this is my attempt to answer some of those questions. You've asked so many over the years, and I always tried to be truthful with you. Some things were classified—and likely still are—but I don't give a flying rip about those now. I'm no longer there to face the consequences, and the Council can just. . . .Well, I'm trying to watch my language. Can you tell?_

Clint grinned at that. While Coulson always remained stoic on the outside, he could get worked up when the right button was pushed. Clint had loved to push those buttons, and the most notorious of those times was bringing in Natasha instead of killing her. He suspected that the entire helicarrier had heard Coulson hollering at him, though no one verified that. They were all too afraid of both Hawkeye and Coulson.

_First question: Family. Just after you came to SHIELD, you asked me if I had a family. You said I was a family man, the type to settle down. And I told you no. Truth is, I _do _have a family. You. And Natasha. Yeah, I hollered and cussed about that one a lot, but she's really proven herself. You made a good call, Clint. The _right_ call. And that's all I ever wanted you to do. I'm sorry I didn't see it at the time._

_Second question: the Conglomerate. So many things went wrong during that op, and I nearly lost my status as a field agent for that one. After all, I'd been ordered to bring them down, kill Hawkeye, and call it good. Fury knew it was a long-term assignment, and he supported me in almost everything. You should have seen his face when I suggested bringing you in, though. Ever seen a black man turn red? I have. It's. . .interesting._

_Anyway, Fury told me he'd eat his eye patch if I managed to turn you into a good agent. He still hasn't followed through on that. But, here you are, one of SHIELD's premier agents and the best friend I've had to date. I don't know how you turned out so good with all the crap you went through as a kid, but you did. You're a good man, Clint. One I'm proud to call friend and brother._

_Third question: Yes, I've thought about dying. I know I told you I didn't when you asked, but we _were_ about to jump off a building with only one of your grappling arrows to catch both of us. I'm still not sure how we both survived that with only minor cuts and bruises. But we did, and that's mostly due to you._

_I trust you, Clint. Which is why I'm entrusting you with my final thoughts. You're one of the best men I've ever been privileged to know, and I wish things had turned out differently. I don't know how it happened, and I don't care. What matters is that, in my last moments, I was thinking about you and Natasha and every person I love._

_So stop beating yourself up. Stop with the self-recriminations that you're facing and get on with life! I know you, Clint, and I know you're blaming yourself for not being there. For not stopping whatever happened to me. And it's stupid! You have done more for me than you realize, and there was obviously nothing you could have done to prevent my fate. I know these words won't take the pain away, and I know you'll be stubborn enough to bury it until you just can't anymore. But I have to say it anyway. You're not responsible. You never were. I'm only human, Clint, and humans die. I'm just sorry it happened when none of us were expecting it._

_You're the brother I never had. You're the friend I've always wanted. I trust you with everything, Clint. Everything. Never forget that._

_Now, get up from wherever you're sitting, go run off the emotion or put some arrows in some bad guys, and get on with life. Remember me, but don't idolize me. And, for God's sake, please figure out how you're going to cope with me being gone and stop making everyone else miserable in the process!_

_Phil Coulson_

Clint snickered at that last line, his fist against his mouth to hold back his grief. He could hear Coulson's voice in the letter and, though he knew it had been written some time ago, he still felt every instruction. He remembered the mission where he asked Coulson if he was afraid to die, and he had admired the other man's cocky shrug. Now, he knew the truth.

A postscript had been added in blue ink, and Clint narrowed his eyes as he realized this writing was fresh.

_P.S. I don't know how things with Loki play out, but I hope you get this letter. Watching you turn like that. . .Well, it tears me up inside to know my brother is a slave to some Asgardian wannabe. Clint, if you're reading this, it means you've made it out of that alive. And I'm glad. So glad. Don't blame yourself, Clint. No matter what happens, don't blame yourself for what you did while you were with Loki. I know it's easy to say now, while I'm sitting here on the helicarrier and you're. . .wherever. But I mean it. You can't let him win!_

_And now I have to go. We've been attacked. Clint, listen to what I've said! Remember it! And DO it!_

Clint stared at those last words. Coulson had been writing that postscript as _he_ attacked the helicarrier to "rescue" Loki! The realization that, in his final moments, Coulson _had_ been thinking of Clint shook him, and he wasn't able to hold back the tears that had gathered in his eyes. He swallowed several times, trying to find the distance he needed to focus on his brother's problems. But he couldn't get past Coulson's voice in his head, telling him that he was the brother Phil had never had. Clint ran a hand down his face, breathing through his mouth as he reread those words.

The wave of emotion that slammed into him at that moment overwhelmed him, and he jumped to his feet. Mary, who had just knocked to ask if he needed anything before she retired for the night, jumped backwards as he barrelled out of the door. He didn't break down often, but it was usually pretty spectacular when he did. And dangerous.

Grabbing his backpack with his bow, he charged out the front door of the house and climbed into his truck. Revving the engine, he spun out of the driveway. He needed to get away, and fast. Before someone got hurt.

~TBC


	6. Running

**Author's Note:** Just a quick word of warning...This chapter is pretty heavy emotionally for Clint. Remember that he's having a breakdown here. I have tried to keep it in character, but the movie seemed to show him stuffing things down rather than dealing with them. When someone does that, it all has to come out sooner or later.

**FineByMeee:** I'm glad you're enjoying the story! I honestly don't think Clint would be the type to cry on a whim, but he is having a breakdown due to the amount of stuff he's gone through. Not to mention facing the demons of his past. I think he'd cry and lose it a little, but in private where no one could see.

**lwolf:** Thank you! Updates are Mondays and Fridays!

**Guest**: Thank you! :)

All that said, hope you enjoy! ~lg

oOo

Clint drove blindly, thankful no one was out on the mountain roads at this time. Tularosa sat in the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains, and he was able to find a safe place to pull over after ten minutes. He parked his truck, turned off the lights and engine, and just sat there.

Coulson had to have known. He had to know Clint was on the helicarrier and would be heading toward Loki. Why else would he do something as stupid as confronting a super-powered Asgardian with a prototype weapon and no one to watch his back? He was hoping to stop the inevitable before Clint did something that would haunt him for years. Unfortunately, he failed.

Now, Clint stared at the darkened road ahead of him, his tears flowing as he forced himself to remember. For the last three-and-a-half months, through all of the Council's interviews and the media hype and the Avengers taking up residence in Stark Tower, Clint had pushed away the memories of what had happened. He had avoided thinking about anything that would set him off and push him over the edge. But Coulson's letter had already done that, so he figured he might as well get this thing done and handled.

Clint hadn't had time to get really worried about Loki's arrival. Yeah, he recognized a threat and acted to stop it, but that was the heat of battle. He'd pushed Fury out of the way of that blast from Loki's scepter and then defended his home. In the process, he'd been taken as a prisoner of war.

But it was worse than that. Clint squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered that moment when Loki's scepter touched his chest. He later learned it took all of ten seconds to turn him, but it _felt_ like a lot longer. As time passed, he remembered more and more of his time under Loki's control, hence why he still doubted whether the Asgardian was truly gone. But those ten seconds. . . .Those were burned into his memory and would likely never fade.

The agony had started in his heart. Clint's chest had contracted so violently he could barely breathe. As he looked up at Loki, everything went dark while his worst fears were played before his eyes. Those horrifying memories and nightmares that kept him awake after missions gone wrong seemed to take forever, and they battered his resolve to the point that he couldn't resist. By the time he started seeing everything through a blue tint, he had retreated so far into himself that Loki had complete control.

At the time, he honestly hadn't cared. Somehow, Loki managed to twist everything that he remembered of SHIELD and turn it into something evil. Something that needed to be stopped. Clint hadn't started truly fighting until he'd seen Fury's chopper shot down. By then, it was too late.

Seeing through the blue of the Tesseract gave him a headache. Loki recognized his skills and often struck up conversations. Clint found himself talking, seemingly unable to stop the diarrhea of the mouth as he spilled secrets he'd sworn to never reveal. He talked about Natasha, about her skills and fears and history. He gave Loki everything he wanted because, frankly, resisting was just too painful. Loki was a mask of deception, and he turned good into evil and evil into righteousness. It constantly battered on everything Clint knew and believed, and he'd become too weak to even fight it. He still tried, though, still struggled in his mind even if he could do nothing physically.

Then, the nightmares began. Loki didn't allow Clint to sleep but once. When he'd awakened, he found the Asgardian in some sort of trance while the scepter glowed brighter than normal. And he realized that he could think clearly. He started recognizing AIM agents and enemies that he'd tracked down in the first twenty-four hours he'd been under Loki's control. The horror that swamped him kept him frozen for only a few seconds. Then, he drew the knife he kept on him at all times and turned to find Loki there. The Asgardian narrowed his eyes and, after shaking his head, simply touched Clint's chest again.

That time, Clint had screamed at the pain. It was worse than just replaying his nightmares before his eyes. He'd physically felt every one of them. When the pain finally released him, Loki's control was complete. His every thought and desire was one with Loki's will. Just after that, he'd been sent to get the iridium.

Leading the attack on the helicarrier had been the next logical step after Loki had been captured. Clint knew _now_ that Loki had orchestrated everything, but Clint had firmly believed he was doing the right thing in trying to free his new master. He hated that word, hated that he had no choice but to do what Loki wanted, and hated that he would fight his own people to fulfill Loki's sick fantasy. But, every time he thought about resisting, another nightmare flashed across his vision. The worst thing about the waking dreams was their intensity. So, to keep the agony at bay and be able to function, he just blindly obeyed.

He hadn't even recognized Natasha. The two of them had trained together and so knew one another's strengths and weaknesses. Clint had acted out of instinct during that fight, needing to get to Loki before the next waking nightmare occurred. They'd been happening with increasing regularity as Loki figured out Clint's weakness. So, trying to kill Natasha was just the act of a desperate man intent on making the agony stop.

He would forever remember the moment he recognized her. He remembered everything spinning, and then a sharp clang and excruciating pain flashed through his head. He couldn't get up, could barely move. And, when he looked up, he'd been kneeling. But not before Loki as his god. No, he stared into Natasha's shattered eyes. And it confused him. When he said her name, she punched him, and he knew no more.

oOo

In his truck, Clint ran a hand over his face as he remembered those events. They weren't old scars. They were still fresh, still causing the weight in his chest to grow. The time he spent "detoxing" made everything seem too bright and too harsh for his eyes. The process of getting Loki out of his head. . . .He had literally felt himself being unmade. And he hadn't put everything back together yet.

Could he? Could he really put himself back together? Or was he like Humpty Dumpty, too broken to be fixed? Suddenly, his truck was too small, and he scrambled to get out. His knees nearly collapsed, leaving him lying on the roadside, but he caught himself with one hand on the door. Closing it gently, he unsteadily made his way to the front of his truck. The engine had already cooled down, but the thought that he had been shattered and might never be whole again caused his grief and anger to rise.

_Can you really wipe out that much red?_ Loki's voice was so clear in his mind that Clint whirled and nearly lost his balance. Instead of seeing the Asgardian, he saw a New Mexico highway disappearing into the mountains. The stars above sparkled down at him, so pretty and deceiving. They looked innocent enough, but they hid horrors such as Loki and the Chitauri.

Clint let out a sob, unable to hold everything in for another moment. Drawing in the cool night air in an attempt to keep from truly shattering, he moved to the passenger side of the truck, shielded from the view of anyone who passed by. Then, sliding to a sitting position and leaning his back against the front tire, he wrapped his arms around his knees and truly wept.

oOo

_Clint learned about Coulson's death on the heels of the toughest battle he'd ever fought. He returned to the helicarrier with Natasha, so weary he could barely put one foot in front of the other. However, Maria Hill waited for them rather than Coulson. She took one look at the two and ordered them to Medical. Clint brushed her off and stalked toward his quarters, intent on finding Coulson and asking what had happened since he'd been out of touch. Natasha caught up to him and tried, in her usual way, to steer him to Medical._

_He shook his head. "Nope. I'm finding Coulson. I need information."_

_Natasha stopped walking, and Clint frowned at her. She had such a heartbroken look on her face that his heart sank. "Clint. . . ."_

"_What is it?"_

"_Coulson. . . ." She swallowed hard, and Clint knew the truth._

_His exhaustion from the battle combined with the shock of truth made him blink back tears. "When?"_

"_Clint, I don't think. . . ."_

"_When?" Clint repeated._

_Natasha met his eyes. "When Loki escaped."_

_All thought of going somewhere other than his personal quarters fled his mind, and Clint whirled on his heel. Natasha followed him, not saying a word but not willing to leave him alone, either. The door to his quarters slid silently back, and he wished he had an actual door to slam in Natasha's face. She _should _have told him that Coulson had. . . .He couldn't even _think_ the word, much less say it._

_Throwing his bow and quiver on his bed, he paced his room, his hand going to his hair as he tried to reign in his emotions. SHIELD agents didn't show emotion, not like this. But he was so worn from his time as Loki's slave, from the battle, and from the knowledge that he'd turned against his own people—whether willingly or not—that his defenses were lowered. He finally faced Natasha, who had stayed in place just inside the door._

"_Did I. . . ." His voice cracked, and he tried to swallow the tears. "Was it. . . ."_

"_It was Loki," Natasha said softly._

_Clint barked out a laugh. "Loki." He was so _tired_ of hearing that! So tired of _everyone_ trying to excuse what he'd done by blaming it on the Asgardian! "Natasha, was it. . . ."_

"_No!" Her voice was ragged as well. "It was Loki, not you."_

"_NATASHA!" Clint couldn't stop the shout any more than he could stop the way she flinched. Her emotions were too worn if his raised voice caused the Black Widow to cringe. Trying to take control of the raging emotions, he glared. "I'm _sick _of hearing that it was Loki! I'm sick of everyone trying to say that I'm not to blame because I was controlled by Loki. Don't you _think _I know that? Don't you think I'm aware that my actions weren't my own? I _know_ that, but __**I**__ still killed those agents! It was _my_ hand, and if you don't answer my question, I will find someone who will! Was. It. Me?"_

"_No."_

_Her answer made him turn away. Surely she was trying to soothe his conscience, to help him start healing from what Loki had done to him. He never heard her move and jumped slightly when she took his face in her hands. Staring into his eyes, she spoke softly. "Clint, it wasn't you. It was. . .It was Loki. He had trapped Thor in the panic room we built for Bruce. Coulson. . . ." She drew in another ragged breath and let it out. "Phil confronted him with one of our prototypes. Somehow, Loki got the drop on him, and he. . . ." She blinked rapidly, but one tear escaped. "Phil died while I was fighting you."_

_Clint stared at her, amazed that she'd allowed her emotions to show. They shared a very special friendship, one that bordered on romantic at times though things remained completely platonic between them. A lot of people thought they were sleeping together, but Clint knew the truth. Only two people in this world had ever seen the highs and lows that he went through. Only two people had ever been allowed to sit with him after a nightmare and to know everything that he'd done in life. Only two people. . . .And one of those two was now dead._

_His anger broke, and the control he kept over his own emotions shattered. So much had happened. _Too much _had happened. First, he'd been mind-raped by a wannabe-god, and then he found out that the man he loved as a brother had died. Combined with the physical exhaustion from his time with Loki, the stress of fighting a losing battle for their planet, watching Stark sacrifice his life, and then facing down Loki when all he wanted to do was kill him. . . .His tears started slow, and Natasha pulled his head down onto her shoulder. His arms went around her waist, and he clung to her as she crooned soft Russian words in his ear._

_For the first time in years, Clint Barton wept._

oOo

Clint wasn't sure how long he sat on the side of the highway, his face buried in his arms as he grieved for Phil Coulson. In all the time he'd known Coulson, he had never allowed this depth of emotion to show. The two of them had shared relieved laughs and manly hugs and silent glares when things went wrong—or right. But neither of them had ever talked about what they saw in the late night hours, when Clint woke from a nightmare that wouldn't fade for hours or Coulson lost an asset and just wanted to drink his sorrows away. Those moments had been locked away in their memories, never mentioned and most certainly never advertised. In spite of the absolute trust between them, Clint always left before Coulson became too morose, and Coulson learned when Clint just needed space to breathe.

So why was he sitting here, on an abandoned New Mexico highway, crying bitter tears that almost scorched his face as they fell? The release felt so good, however, and Clint didn't want the tears to stop. His head ached, and he knew he'd look a mess when he finally made it back to the bed and breakfast. But that was a problem for later. For now, he chose to ignore the questions of why and just indulge himself for once.

Finally, the tears subsided and left him empty. Clint lifted his head and leaned it back against the truck. The night breeze dried the tears and ruffled his hair. He drew in deep breaths, finding himself back on familiar footing emotionally. He no longer felt like he'd fall apart if a stranger pulled over to help him. All the pain that he'd bottled up had come out, and he simply enjoyed the absence of pressure. Exhaustion swamped him, and he allowed himself to drift. And to remember.

The memories of Coulson's life still hurt, but they no longer clawed at him. They simply reminded him that a portion of his family had been lost. He knew there would be more moments when the grief welled up, but he decided to enjoy the release for now.

When he felt as if he could stand without falling over, Clint pushed himself to his feet and looked around. The eastern sky was beginning to subtly lighten, surprising him. He'd been out here all night? Just how long had he sat there, weeping and groaning and hollering at the injustices of the past? Or had he grieved for the loss of something he'd wanted his entire life? Was that why Coulson's death shook him so deeply? Had he unconsciously replaced Barney with Coulson, finding Coulson to be the brother who cared when his biological brother didn't? Barney had already confronted him about looking at their past as a kid, so it made sense that Clint was reacting like a kid.

Shaking his head at himself, he climbed back into his truck and just sat there. All these years, he'd prided himself on growing into an "acceptable" member of society. No one truly saw assassins as traditionally acceptable, but Clint kept that portion of his work to himself. When people saw him, they saw the federal agent who went for runs every morning, took long trips, reported for duty in an all-black uniform, and in general blended into New York life. They never realized that his "briefcase" carried a collapsible recurve bow and arrows, that he always had at least three knives and two guns on him at all times, and that his "every man" look was a front. They never realized he enjoyed climbing through air ducts just to see what he could see, that he could cook so well because he'd gone undercover as a chef once and used that to poison a target, that he had an entire room in his apartment set up as a gym complete with a trapeze bar to help him retain his acrobatic skills, or that he went to work everyday knowing he might never come back. Clint had learned over the years to become a part of his environment, and his neighbors thought him nice if somewhat aloof.

But, for all of his work on becoming a "normal adult" in New York, he'd never really grown past the fourteen-year-old kid wanting his brother's approval. Coulson had given that to him, had helped him heal from the wounds of his childhood, and had provided a place where he truly belonged. Loki had taken it from him, and it left him shattered and reverting to his childlike mentality.

_Don't let him win!_ Coulson's words echoed in his mind, for once drowning out Loki's voice and memory. _Stop whining and complaining about how bad your life has been! You're alive, and you gotta make it through this! Live on! Remember me, but don't idolize me!_ While not exactly what Coulson had said in his letter, Clint still heard it in his voice. He still smiled at the blunt instructions, drawing a breath in through his nose and huffing it out through his mouth.

Coulson was right. He couldn't keep running from the truth. He couldn't continue moping through his days because something hadn't gone his way. Yes, what Loki had done was horrible and beyond even putting into words. But Clint had let the Asgardian win by refusing to pick himself up and put himself back together. While he told himself that this leave-of-absence was about that, he hadn't truly used this time to heal. Just to face those old demons and keep them alive for a little while longer.

"No more," he muttered as he reached for his keys and started his truck. Determination settled onto his features, and he turned and carefully drove back to the B&B. He hoped Mary hadn't stayed up all night, worried for him. If she had, he needed to find a way to apologize and repay her. She cared about him as if he were her son, and the realization made him blink. He had only been here for three days, and somehow had found yet another woman who wanted to mother him. How was it he kept doing that?

His head ached horribly as he turned onto Old Mescalero Road. Yes, dawn was only an hour or two away, but he looked forward to sleeping. Maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to rest for the first time since Loki stole the Tesseract. Maybe he'd find the rest his mind and heart so desperately craved.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and Clint instinctively slowed his truck as his focus snapped into place. He'd experienced this danger sense before, usually when something triggered his subconscious. Now, he narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what had alerted him to danger. Then, he saw it: a dark van parked a couple blocks from the bed and breakfast, a faint glow around the edges of the windows indicating electronic equipment inside. Rather than doing more than slowing down, he drove around the corner and away from the bed and breakfast. He had no doubt whoever had come was after Barney. Or him. No one came after Hawkeye without backup, and he had no idea of knowing whether Barney had that sort of reputation or not. His brother had been "dead" for too long.

A block away from the corner, Clint pulled the truck into the driveway of a vacant house. The neighbors might wonder what happened if they saw the truck, but someone new to Tularosa wouldn't notice. Clint pulled his bow and quiver from its bag, settling the quiver over his shoulders while snapping his bow open. He stopped long enough to pull the flimsy "For Rent" sign from the yard and toss it under the truck before sprinting through the quiet neighborhood. A few houses had lights on inside, those early risers who went to work before the sun came up and went to bed before the sun went down. But the only other light came from the faint glow around the mountains.

It took only a few minutes to duck behind and between houses and get back to the bed and breakfast. Clint hung out in the shadows of the house directly across the street, studying the tableau before him. A light glowed inside the office of the B&B, but he saw no motion inside. That was good. That meant his enemies had either not infiltrated the place and that Mary and Barney were still sleeping.

Then, he spotted motion near one of the trees. Narrowing his eyes, Clint recognized a man with a sniper rifle ready to climb into the branches. Some quick calculations told him that it gave the sniper a perfect vantage point for Barney's room. He didn't think much beyond that before he nocked an arrow and let it fly. The sniper fell almost soundlessly, though Clint didn't count on things staying quiet for much longer.

Quickly darting across the street, cursing his lack of cover the whole way, Clint dodged between trees as he looked for other enemies trying to get to his brother. He saw none and used a dark window to enter the house rather than going through the front door. Mary still had swamp coolers in the house, and they required windows to be open in each room so the cool air would pull through the house. Clint hadn't liked it, but he now thanked Mary for not securing them more than they already were. Creeping through the house, he entered the office and, avoiding windows, crawled to the desk. With one ear tuned to any movement anywhere, gathered the file still spread across the desk, shoved Coulson's letter and the envelope with Jennifer's letter into it, and tucked it under one arm. The stairs were trickier to maneuver, but he made it upstairs and into his room without incident.

Once there, he stowed the file in his duffel, slung the thing over his shoulder, and crept into Barney's room. His brother slept facing the door, and the slight creak on the hinges startled Barney awake. Clint moved quickly, crouching next to his brother's bed before the gun Barney kept under his pillow could go off. "It's me!"

Barney blinked at him. "Clint? Mary said you'd left."

"Yeah, no time for that." Clint stood and moved to the window, cursing again when he saw four shadows moving toward the house. "We gotta go."

Barney joined him at the window and saw what he did. "And how do you propose we do that?"

Clint's eyes flicked to the left, and he smirked. "Trellis." Nudging his brother to one side, he quietly slid the window open. "We take out these guys and climb down, circle around, and make a run for my truck."

Barney looked doubtfully at his gun. "With this?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "You forget who I am."

"What about Mary?"

"She'll be okay." Clint refused to think about their hostess right then. Yeah, she'd wake up to find police on her doorstep and bodies all over her yard. But, with one quick phone call to Natasha, SHIELD would sweep in and make certain she was reimbursed for everything. It was how Coulson would have done it, and Clint would insist on the same thing.

Taking a deep breath, Clint drew another arrow and took aim. He let the breath out as he released the bowstring, taking out two more shadows before the first one finished falling. The fourth man took aim before Clint could target him, but he fell, an arrow in his neck, before he could fire.

Inside the room, Barney whistled quietly. "You are _good_, little brother!"

"Yeah, whatever. Let's go." Clint climbed out of the window and shimmied down the trellis, covering Barney as his brother did the same. Then, he handed his bag over and looked around. No one seemed to notice them yet, but that would change any moment. "Let's go."

Somehow, they made it down the street, around the corner, and to the truck without incident. Clint threw his and Barney's bags in the back of the truck, tucking his bow and quiver behind the seat. He climbed inside as his brother found an old, paint-stained tarp and buckets next to the vacant house. Covering their bags and positioning the buckets, the truck looked like any other work vehicle heading up the mountain to Ruidoso. Nodding his approval, Clint backed out of the driveway, the "For Rent" sign barely showing in the dim light.

Once on the highway, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed without looking. Natasha answered on the first ring. _"Clint."_

"Our position was compromised. We're heading due south, arrival should be within twenty-four hours." Clint's succinct voice drew Barney's attention and sent a message to Natasha. They'd used that code in the field multiple times to throw of anyone who might be monitoring their communications. By saying the word "due" in connection with a direction, they meant they were heading the exact opposite way. Natasha would pick up on it and have supplies waiting for them in Colorado.

"_Understood. Do you need anything?"_

"Not right now." Clint eyed his brother. "We're gonna drive until we get there."

"_I'll make sure the place is stocked."_ She paused, and he heard her worry when she spoke again. _"Do you need backup?"_

He shook his head. "This is something I need to do alone." After another long moment, he sighed. "Tasha? There's a lady in Tularosa. . .Mary. She runs the bed and breakfast where I was staying. We had to fight our way out."

"_I'll take care of her."_

"Thank you." He hung up the phone after hearing her soft admonition to "be safe."

Barney eyed him. "Tasha? As in Na_tasha_ Romanoff? You called the Black Widow!"

"Relax." Clint smirked as he glanced in his rearview mirror. "She's one of us now."

"One of. . . ." Barney broke off the argument. "Who _are_ you?"

Clint thought about the last twenty-four hours, about what Coulson had said in his letter. "I'm a human being, just like you. And we're gonna get you through this."

~TBC


	7. Just Like An Outlaw

**Author's Note:** Chapter's a touch late today as it's Veteran's Day in the US. My daughter's out of school, so I slept in. :)

**FineByMeee:** Sorry to make you cry. But I bawled like a baby writing that chapter!

**Jessica:** LOL! That's all I can say!

Hope you all enjoy the chapter! ~lg

oOo

The drive to Ruidoso, New Mexico took less than an hour, but Clint never relaxed his watch on their rear view mirror. Barney sat next to him, his head turned away as he watched the passing scenery in morose silence. A lot had changed in the last few hours, the least of which was apparently his estimation of his kid brother. Not that Clint cared. Right now, there were people after them who wouldn't hesitate to kill, torture, or otherwise maim both of them. He wanted to avoid that if possible. He already had too many bad memories.

Finally, as they passed over Apache Summit, Barney turned toward Clint. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"'Cause you look. . .horrible."

Clint snorted. "Thanks, Barney. You're not looking too bad yourself."

Barney rolled his eyes. "Clint, you charged out of the house like a man runnin' for his life. What happened?"

Clint turned to glare at his brother, his eyes narrowed ferociously. Barney couldn't see because of Clint's sunglasses, however, and continued to stare back. Finally, Clint sighed. "I lost a good friend almost four months ago. Last night, I got a letter." His voice cracked, and he swallowed.

Barney's face changed. "Got it."

The two men were quiet after that, Clint grateful for the silence. He really didn't want to discuss Coulson or the letter or what Coulson had asked him to do by including a letter to Jennifer or how Coulson had died or. . . .There was a _lot_ he really didn't want to talk about right now.

They arrived in Ruidoso without incident, and Clint pulled into a gas station with good coffee. Or so he hoped. After spending a sleepless night on the side of a highway as all his issues with Coulson's death came roaring into the present, he didn't want to attempt a nearly six-hour drive without some sort of backup plan. And telling Barney where the safe house was so he could sleep wasn't an option. So, with the largest cup of coffee and some caffeine pills in his hand, he returned to his truck and used the pretense of checking the air pressure in his tires to scan the vehicle for trackers. So far, they were all clear, but getting north without being seen would be tricky. Drive-thru food was an option, but too many stops meant they'd be identified.

The morning passed in a blur. Clint drank his coffee, swallowed a couple of pills, and just drove. He'd had enough experience pressing past physical exhaustion to keep himself alert and safe. The emotional pain, however, surprised him. He felt bruised all over, like he'd had a seizure and now experienced a full-body ache. But the hurt wasn't physical. It originated from the region around his heart, and it continued into a migraine-level headache. The breakdown the night before had obviously been needed because some very ugly emotions had come roaring out while on that highway. But it left him wondering if he should call Natasha for backup. The memories of Loki and what the Asgardian had done—or forced Clint to do—were too close to the surface.

They reached Las Vegas, New Mexico around mid-morning, and Clint found a McDonald's drive-thru. He wasn't hungry, not after the emotional night and then the fight at the bed and breakfast, but he had heard Barney's stomach growl. At first, he simply ignored it, but a smirk finally crossed his face when it continued. Barney just shrugged, and the two of them ordered a meal and ate as they found a gas station.

While Barney filled the gas tank, Clint dug around in his duffel for the file he'd carelessly tossed there. A few pages were bent and torn, but everything had been salvaged. After refolding Coulson's letter and tucking it back in its envelope, Clint handed the file to Barney. "Let's plan."

Barney opened the file and skimmed over it. All traces of his seemingly reckless attitude vanished as he again absorbed what SHIELD knew about Egghead. "Starr's careful," he said softly. "He won't come out into the open without good reason. And he's patient, which means he'll wait years to achieve his goal."

Clint glanced at his brother. "How long ago did you hide his niece?"

"Seven years."

"So, he's reached the end of his patience." Clint scowled. "If you had something I wanted, I wouldn't try to kill you. Not yet. I'd capture you and get the information _first_. So why the sudden rise in assassination attempts? Unless Starr's trying to flush you out of hiding."

Barney shook his head. "Well, it worked."

"We're working against the clock here." Clint checked his mirrors, making a mental note of every vehicle on the interstate before taking the next exit. No one followed him, and he breathed a soft sigh of relief. "Starr found you and sent an entire squad after you. Not to mention the outstanding contract on your head."

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, I could always kill you," Clint said flippantly as he pulled back onto the interstate.

Barney did a classic double-take. "Let's save that for the last resort."

Clint shrugged. "Your call." But he couldn't stop the grin that formed. It felt good to talk about the mission details with his brother. He sobered a moment later. "Our best bet is to draw Starr out of hiding. You were in his organization. How do we do that?"

"Besides giving up Trish, which I'm not willing to do?" Barney's eyes narrowed as he thought. "Kill everyone he sends. He'll eventually show up to finish the job."

Clint gave his brother a sharp look. "That's risky. Too many bodies, and local law enforcement will get suspicious. I operate covertly, Barney, and the last thing I need is a bunch of LEOs tearing down my door."

"You have a better idea?"

Clint admitted that he didn't. He was beyond exhausted, operating on caffeine and training alone. Maintaining this level of alertness cost him, and he knew he'd collapse when they reached the safe house.

Barney fell silent after that, reading and rereading the file. He occasionally commented on something SHIELD knew that the FBI didn't, but he allowed Clint to drive in peace. For his part, Clint appreciated his brother's discretion and focused on getting them to the safe house alive.

They arrived in Trinidad, Colorado with little trouble. Clint found the safe house and pulled his truck into the garage, noting the thumbprint scanner next to the door. Barney pulled their bags out of the back of the truck, eyes wide, as Clint pressed his thumb to the small device that looked suspiciously like a doorbell. There was one on each entrance to the house, and Clint knew he'd need to program his brother's thumb into this one just so he could move about if necessary. But that could come later. For now, he wanted to just find a bed and sleep.

Barney continued to rubberneck as they walked through the house. The kitchen had been fully stocked, likely due to Natasha, and Clint found another file and two secure comm units on the dining table. Sighing deeply, he tucked one into his ear and activated it. "Agent Barton," he began, rattling off his personal code afterwards. "Confirm line secure."

"_Secure line confirmed,"_ came the tinny voice on the other end. _"Patching you through to Director Fury per his request."_

Clint unconsciously straightened. "Understood."

A moment later, Fury came on the line. _"Barton?"_

"Sir, we've arrived at the safe house and, frankly, could use a shower and sleep before trying to plan anything that involves risking our lives."

"_I understand that, Barton, but I've got a change of plans for you."_

Clint sighed. "Sir?"

"_I know you're on leave, but the Council wants Egghead."_ Fury rushed to finish that statement before Clint could get his objections out of his mouth. _"I haven't told them that you're there or why you're handling this case, though I'm less than impressed that an FBI agent we thought dead is suddenly alive again. That's beside the point. Egghead has been on our Most Wanted list for years, and the Council wants him taken down with extreme prejudice."_

Clint swallowed. "We've got to draw him out first, Sir. And, from what my brother tells me, that will take time."

"_Then take it."_ Fury paused for a moment. _"Barton, I know this hasn't been the easiest time for you, but you're the best we've got at this. Romanoff and Rogers are tracking down the niece to bring her in. Your orders are to take out Elihas Starr and bring your brother in. We'll decide what to do with both Ms. Starr and the other Agent Barton after that. Understood?"_

"Yes, Sir."

"_Now, get some rest. You sound horrible."_ Fury clicked off the line a few moments later.

Barney, who had listened wide-eyed, frowned. "Who was that?"

"My boss," Clint said as he tossed the comm on the table. "Come on. I'll show you the security features, but I'm locking us inside for the rest of the night. I get first shower, and then I'm sleeping."

Barney trailed behind him, listening closely as Clint explained the security cameras, motion sensors, and myriad of other passive security devices—plus a couple not-so-passive security measures—in place around the safe house. They'd chosen a spot on the edges of Trinidad, and the windows had been blacked out to keep the place looking vacant. Finally, Barney put a hand on Clint's shoulder. "I got it, little brother. Go clean up and get some rest."

Clint nodded wearily and didn't even complain that Barney had used a nickname for him. He dragged his duffel bag into the bathroom. The water took a few moments to get hot, which Clint used to select a clean t-shirt and sweats. Then, he quickly showered, washed the day-old sweat from his body, and stumbled into one of the house's bedrooms. Deciding to trust his brother for just a few hours, he crawled into the narrow bed without even pulling back the covers. With barely enough presence of mind to tuck a knife under his pillow, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

oOo

_Everything was blue—electric blue with brilliant pink and red edges. He felt like he was looking at an overexposed photograph, and the sharp lines around doors and faces so contrasted with the bright colors that it burned his eyes. He struggled against the hands holding him down, grunting at the exertion as they tied his wrists with restraints. Behind them, Natasha watched with a strange look on her face. She seemed both relieved and upset. A bruise from where he'd hit her was already forming on her cheek, and Clint glared even as he arched his body. His head pounded, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to make the agony go away._

"_I won't touch Barton!" The voice in his head echoed like those ghost movies he'd seen, bringing to mind Loki's sadistic grin. Clint shook his head, trying to get the Asgardian out of his thoughts. But Loki quietly continued, "Not until I make you kill her. . . .You know how. . . ."_

_Clint blinked his eyes open, no longer standing in front of his captor but on a bed in SHIELD's state-of-the-art medical facility. But even they couldn't make an isolation room any more comfortable. Natasha sat next to him. "Clint. You're going to be alright."_

"_You know that?" He laughed, hearing Loki's instructions in the back of his mind. "Is that what you know?"_

_Natasha stood and walked away while images of what she feared most flashed through Clint's mind. He dropped his head back on the pillow, feeling the agonizing pull of someone yanking him from his body. He tried to hold on to himself, to prevent what he knew was happening, but his thoughts were not his own. Instead, he yanked on the restraints and growled when they didn't budge. His feet were free, however, and he planted his boots on the bed while lifting with the entire strength of his body. Natasha put a hand on his shoulder, presumably to calm him, but he continued struggling._

_Her voice floated to him again. "Clint."_

_He blinked at her. The blue was fading, but the pink and red at the edges of his vision grew. "Tasha?"_

"_It's me." She looked calm, normal, herself in every way. Except that her eyes started to glow an unearthly blue just like his had._

"_No." He shook his head. "No, this is a dream."_

_Suddenly, Loki walked through the door behind Natasha. "Oh, no, Barton. This is _real_!" Then, he reached out with that scepter._

_As it touched his chest, Clint screamed._

oOo

Clint woke, trembling and huddled in a corner of the bedroom. His knife, that he'd so thoughtlessly tucked under his pillow, was clenched in his hand, and he automatically swept the room for hostiles. The shadows moved, and he blinked rapidly as he tried to clear his vision. Everything was normal. No blue. No Natasha. Most importantly, no Loki.

"Clint." The voice came from the door, and he wrenched his head around to see Barney standing in light from the hall, his hand clamped over his upper arm. "Clint, it's a dream!"

"Barney?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"He's gone?"

Barney frowned. "Who's gone?"

"No one." Clint straightened, the terror slowly fading.

"_Oh, no, I'm not gone,"_ Loki's voice whispered in Clint's ear, sounding as if the Asgardian was right behind him. _"I'll __**never**__ be gone!"_

Without warning, Clint whirled and threw the knife, blinking as it embedded itself in the wall.

Barney rushed across the room, grabbing Clint's shoulders. The two men struggled for a moment, Clint with his memories and Barney with his brother. Barney finally got the upper hand, just barely. "Hey! Whatever—_Who_ever you're talking about. . .He's. Gone." Barney met Clint's eyes. "Clint. He's gone."

"Yeah." Clint drew in deep breaths, running his hand over his face as he finally came back to full awareness. "Did I wake you?"

"It's fine." Barney dropped his hands, the blood on his sleeve becoming apparent as he did so. "Though I now know to never try to physically wake you from a nightmare."

"Yeah, bad idea." Clint quickly sheathed the dagger, a gift from Coulson years ago, and reached for clean clothes. "I'm taking a shower." He plodded out of the room, knowing exactly what his brother saw. He'd avoided the label for his "condition" for months, but it had become apparent in the strength of that particular flashback that he wouldn't be able to so easily put Loki to rest.

In the shower, he stood with his fists against the cold tile while the water pounded into his back. "You're gone," he said under his breath, not needing to clarify to whom he spoke. "You're gone! You're out of my head! Natasha got you out, and I'm not your slave anymore. I'm not gonna give in."

He thought he heard Loki's sardonic laugh somewhere, but he chose instead to focus on some recent advice given from the grave. _Don't blame yourself, Clint. No matter what happens, don't blame yourself for what you did while you were with Loki._ Coulson's voice was firm. _You can't let him win!_

"You won't win," Clint said softly, his voice breaking as he repeated Coulson's words. "You _won't_ win! You won't win!" He said it over and over again until the hold the dream had had on him broke, leaving him feeling bruised but in his right mind. He breathed the steam-laden air for another few minutes and then slapped the faucet to turn off the water. He wouldn't let Loki win. Even if it meant getting professional help when he got back to New York. He would survive and get past this.

oOo

Clint found Barney in the kitchen, making breakfast as the sun came up outside. His brother had bandaged his arm, and Clint winced as he poured a cup of coffee. "Sorry about that," he said, his voice much more stable.

Barney turned to him, his face sober. "I don't know exactly what you're goin' through, little brother, but I'm here if you need it."

Clint stared at his brother, jaw clenched as he simply nodded. He desperately needed to talk about all of this, to get it off his chest, but the person he'd once gone to in situations like this was dead. Coulson had listened and then promptly forgot about the conversation. He couldn't trust Barney to do that. Could he?

Instead of commenting, he wandered over to the small round dining table, where Barney had Egghead's file spread out, and started looking over his brother's notes. He saw FBI Agent Barney Barton in them and grinned. Maybe doing this with his brother's backup wouldn't be so bad. After all, he'd wanted approval for years. "So, you've got some ideas?"

"Well, I had to make some assumptions." Barney set a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast next to Clint's left hand. "Like the fact you were ordered to _kill_ Starr rather than bringing him in."

Clint looked at his brother without moving his head. "And if I was?"

Barney snorted. "I saw how you operated back in New Mexico. I pick up things, and I know you're not just a covert operative. Not if you sleep with a knife under your pillow."

"Mmm." Clint shrugged. "Was too tired to find the gun." He grabbed his fork and started eating. "So, we're drawing Egghead out of hiding by killing everyone he sends after you. You're _sure_ that'll work?"

Barney waggled his head from side to side. "No, but it's the best idea we've got."

Clint ate in silence, finishing his breakfast as he continued looking over his brother's notes. SHIELD had known almost everything that the FBI knew, but Barney had inside knowledge. He absorbed everything his brother had told him before wrapping his hands around the coffee cup that Barney had refilled. His brother liked coffee as strong as Clint liked it. _Must be hereditary_, he thought. "Barney, there's something else."

"I'm not gonna like this, am I?"

"Probably not." Clint took a deep breath. "Where's Trish Starr?"

Barney's face closed down so quickly that Clint blinked. "You're right. I don't like it."

"The only way we can protect both you and her is if you trust us!"

"Us? You and the Black Widow?"

"Me and SHIELD."

Barney snorted. "Yeah, I trusted the FBI with her. It nearly got us killed."

"I'm not the FBI, and neither is SHIELD." Clint decided to take a risk. "Know who they're sending after her? Steve Rogers. Captain America. If they're sending _him_ to bring her in, you can trust us."

"Right." Barney eyed him doubtfully but finally sighed. "You know it's Captain America?"

Clint grinned. "Don't you watch the news? I've got the Avengers on speed dial."

"Right, 'cause you're one of them." Barney rolled his eyes. "Fine. Last I heard from her, she's holed up in Detroit."

"Detroit? The most dangerous city in the United States?"

"What better place to hide?"

Clint admitted he had a point. "What's your contact protocol? Does she have a specific routine that we need to know, or is it just a matter of trust?"

Barney stared him in the eye. "How would _you_ do it, Clint?" Then, he shrugged. "Anyone other than me calls her, she'll bolt. While I know her fairly well, I don't know all of her hiding spots. Failing that, she'll start shooting. Now, Captain America might be a super soldier, but I'm fairly certain bullets can take him down."

Clint mumbled a curse at that and made a mental note to ask for a new cell phone the next time Natasha made contact. Had he been thinking clearly, he would have assumed Barney had set up some sort of contact protocol with Trish Starr, but he'd been too distracted with Loki's memory and his own personal issues. They'd clouded his judgment, and he could not allow that right then. Tugging his phone from his pocket, he tossed it to Barney. "Make the call."

Barney glared at him but began dialing anyway. Clint left the room, too restless to just sit and talk. The adrenaline crash from his nightmare would hit soon; he always felt hyperaware just before it did. When that came he'd do one of two things. He'd either sleep for hours on end or wake from another nightmare. Either way, he'd lock his door so Barney wouldn't get hurt again.

His brother appeared in the door of the living room. "It's done," he said quietly as he lobbed the phone through the air. "Anyone shows up _without_ Steve Rogers, they'll get an unwelcome surprise."

Clint effortlessly caught the phone. "I'll let Natasha know."

"So," Barney began as he eased himself onto the couch, "how _did_ you meet the Black Widow?"

Clint, who had felt the crash starting, yawned widely. "Another story for another day."

Barney narrowed his eyes and then nodded. "Get some sleep, little brother."

Clint just waved a hand and mumbled, "I'll try."

Five minutes later, he lay face down in his bed, soundly sleeping and completely unaware of his brother picking the lock on his door so he could keep an ear out for nightmares.

oOo

Over the next week, the Barton brothers established their cover in Trinidad and spent their time doing recon. They'd decided to play two men who were looking to start up a ranch of their own. Problem with Trinidad was that, while populated with friendly people and ranchers, everyone liked giving advice but no one really offered much besides that. They had a few job opportunities for ranchers needing good help, but none of the land around was really available. Clint and Barney drove the country roads, waiting until alone to dodge off the highway and spend hours getting the lay of the land.

The wide open spaces of southern Colorado helped Clint in a way he hadn't expected, and he started sleeping better at night. Not great, but five hours was better than one. He found he liked the uncrowded feel of the area and often thought about spending the night out on the open range. It wouldn't have been the first time, and the absolute silence soothed him. Slowly, Loki's voice faded from his mind. Clint knew it would take a lot longer than just a week to put that particular nightmare to bed, but he took what rest he could get when he could get it.

Barney, however, seemed wound even tighter than when they'd first reunited. The anticipation of an attack at any time kept him _from_ sleeping, and the brothers often argued about how Clint _could_ sleep with everything going on. Clint often thought about sharing his personal demons with Barney, but something always stopped him. Barney didn't need to be worried about whether Clint would flash back to Loki in the middle of a fight. He needed to think about surviving so he could be reunited with Trish.

Clint had daily contact with Natasha, and he occasionally spoke to Fury. Drawing Egghead out of hiding wasn't an easy process, and it meant a lot of people slept with one eye open until the guy showed up.

The first attack came while Clint and Barney rode horses through yet another rancher's land. They'd just passed an abandoned house on their way to Trinchera, and Clint's spine stiffened. He reached for his bow, tucked conveniently across the front of his saddle, and let his eyes skim the surrounding field. He and Barney were in the open, on unfamiliar horses, and with little more than a gun and his bow to protect them. Yeah, they had knives, but Clint would have preferred to avoid hand-to-hand combat. The horses danced a bit, their ears flickering as they picked up on the tension as well. Clint reached for an arrow from the quiver he'd put on his back once they left town and simply waited.

When the first silhouette appeared over a rise, he lifted his bow, took aim, and fired. The fight went downhill from there.

~TBC


	8. Willing And Able

**Author's Note:** So sorry to post this later in the day than normal. RL got a little hectic this morning. :)

**FineByMeee:** LOL! Cliffhangers are one of an author's most powerful weapons when writing a story! I love them. :D And the dreams. . . .Yeah, those are rough.

Hope you enjoy this chapter! ~lg

oOo

Clint's entire body tensed as he fired the opening shot. It wasn't his first fight against four-to-one odds, but it _was_ his first fight against four-to-one odds with _horses_. He sensed more than saw Barney draw his own sidearm, a Desert Eagle, and take aim. Another of their attackers fell, and Clint's horse danced sideways at the sound of the gunfire.

The bad guys opened fire before either of the Barton brothers could fire another shot. They dropped the odds down to three-to-one, still not great given that Clint and Barney were in the open with no hope of reaching the ranch house without turning into Swiss cheese. But better. Clint fired another arrow before their attackers managed to get close enough to drag him off the horse, and he didn't spare the time to smile grimly as the body fell to the ground.

Barney was also pulled from his horse, letting out a soft grunt as he hit the ground. Clint tumbled, using his training from SHIELD and Natasha to take his attacker down with him. They landed in a tangle of limbs, and Clint couldn't reach any of the daggers he carried. He reached back and drew an arrow, twirling it between his fingers so he could stab it into the man now trying to pummel him. Pushing the body aside, he drew another arrow and shot at the man that had managed to get Barney into a choke hold. His brother coughed at the sudden release.

The next few moments passed in a blur. Clint saw the glint of a knife in the sunlight and dove, not really thinking about what he was doing. He had managed to pull another arrow from his quiver, and he landed on his back. The knife that had been headed for his brother's back sliced into the triceps of his right arm as he slipped his own knife between the guy's ribs and into his heart. Shoving the body aside, he ground his teeth together as Barney managed to take out their last two attackers.

Barney turned and looked at him, his eyes going immediately to the blood. "Clint?"

"I'm fine." Clint sat up, twisting his arm and trying to get a better look at the cut. It hurt to move that muscle right then, but he'd had worse injuries. Reaching for the dagger he'd used against his nearest enemy, he glanced around. The two horses had retreated from the gunfire to the nearby ranch house. They seemed a touch spooked but not panicked. Which meant they wouldn't have to walk all the way back to Trinidad.

Barney held out a hand, and Clint took it, biting back the groan as the pain flared from mildly irritating to incredibly uncomfortable. He knew others with a wound like that would either be in tears or fussing for someone to treat it, but he had developed an impressive pain tolerance over the years. He bent over and cleaned his dagger on the dead guy's shirt before sheathing it and gathering up the arrows he'd used. He checked the arrowheads while Barney gathered up his spent shell casings.

Clint saw the questions in his brother's eyes as Barney tore a strip of fabric from his jacket and wrapped it around his arm. They mounted up and turned the horses back to Trinidad. The rancher who had rented the horses to them assured them that the animals were accustomed to gunfire. Clint just hoped that "gunfire" meant "multiple shots at once." Otherwise, the horses would need some help before the guy took them out hunting again.

They hadn't gone more than two feet before he started talking. "We need to move. I don't know how they found us, but we've been made. Staying here will only draw more attention, and we might not be lucky enough to be attacked in the middle of nowhere."

Barney nodded, not saying another word. Clint glanced at his brother and saw the anger on Barney's face. Sighing, he shook his head and figured Barney would talk when he was ready. Besides, Clint understood. Somehow, he'd managed to start building an actual friendship with his brother, and he didn't want to lose that. Not like he had with Coulson.

Pushing the thought away, Clint rode in silence, letting Barney turn in the horses so no one asked about the blood that had dripped down his arm. Then, Clint drove them back to the safe house and burst inside. "Pack up. We're moving."

"You said that already." Barney's voice held a hint of irritation, and Clint frowned at him. "What were you thinking?"

Clint blinked. "When?"

"Back there." Barney made a vague motion toward the opposite edge of town. "Jumping in front of that knife?"

"That knife would have _killed_ you."

"And I can take care of myself."

"You were nearly unconscious when I shot that guy holding you." Clint turned to fully face his brother, his features going carefully blank. "Even I would take a moment to recover, and having a knife come at me inside of that first ten seconds would be pretty severe. I just did what any bro—good man would do."

"You know, you _can_ say it."

"Say what?"

Barney scoffed. "Don't do this to me, Clint."

"Do what to you?"

"Close down. You've been like this for _years_. Even when you were a kid, you had this. . .habit of just shutting down everything and moving forward like it never happened." Barney softened his voice. "We _are_ brothers."

"Maybe biologically, yes." Clint stared up into his brother's face, not minding the fact that Barney stood several inches taller than he did. "But we haven't been true brothers for a long time. Now, I'm starting to wonder if it's a good idea for us to work together since I obviously still have some issues to work out. Either way, I wasn't about to let you get killed because of your ego."

"You think you're the only one to have issues?" Barney's eyes narrowed. "You forget something. I _know_ what it was like to live in that house, day after day, and see how Dad roughed up Mom. I was there when the police came and told us they'd died, and I know I felt the same relief you did! We wouldn't have to get hit anymore, and neither would Mom. Then, they put us in the Willoughby House. I _saw_ what they did to you, and. . . ."

"Then why didn't you _do_ something?" Clint interrupted. "If you saw what was happening, why. . . ."

"Because Old Man Willoughby would have done worse!" Barney shouted. "I tried stopping him one day, but you don't remember. He _promised_ me he wouldn't stop at just a beating if I ever tried to interfere again! You think you know everything! Well, you don't."

Clint stared at his brother, surprised at the revelation. "I. . .I didn't know."

"If I'd had any say about it, you wouldn't have." Barney scrubbed a hand down his face. "Look, you said it best. We gotta move."

"Yeah." Clint started to head for his personal belongings but stopped. "Barney, I'm sorry. It's just. . .there's a lot I went through recently. I wish I could make you understand. . . ."

"You'd have to _talk_ to me in order for that to happen."

The brothers went their separate ways then, Barney to the living room to pack up the things he'd spread out over the coffee table and Clint to his room to gather his duffel bag and the comm gear SHIELD had left in the house. Anything that could have been used to identify them went into the burn bin. He found a cooler and started loading food into it, knowing it could be a bit before he was able to buy more. Besides, Natasha had clearly ordered the house stocked as he had already found several of his preferred drinks or snacks tucked away into the cabinets. It was all routine, stocking up his truck and getting things ready so he and his "team" could go to ground.

Then, suddenly, it wasn't routine. He had just dragged the burn bin out the back door to set it on fire when everything changed, tinted blue, and made his head spin.

_He stood in a safe house, watching as men wearing black jackets swarmed the area and took food, gear, and weapons._

Clint blinked and shook his head, surprised. The flashbacks had never happened while he was going about his daily life. And abandoning a compromised safe house was considered "normal" for him.

_Flames licked at the wood, the smell of smoke masking something even more sinister. In the shadows of the nearby forest, Clint turned with Loki and walked away, ignoring the vague sense that he'd just killed good men._

Clint ran a hand over his eyes. He'd walked back inside, but he lost his train of thought. What was he supposed to be doing?"

"_You will __**never**__ be free." _Loki's voice hissed in his ear as a hand landed on his shoulder.

Clint whirled and drew his knife, startling his brother. "Barney?"

Barney's eyes were concerned. "Hey, buddy, you okay?"

"Yeah." Clint frowned at the burn bin, trying to figure out why that, of all things, had triggered a flashback. "Just. . . ."

Barney nodded, staying just out of reach. "You ready?"

Clint's eyes roamed over the living areas of the home. "You've wiped down everything?"

"Yes."

"Good." He pulled his keys from his pocket. "Let's go."

In his truck, he backed away from the house and scowled. His dream about Loki had obviously shaken loose a few more mundane details, things that he would prefer to leave forgotten in light of the events that followed. But he could no more control _what_ he remembered than he could control _when_ he remembered them.

The drive to Cañon City, a small Colorado town just over a hundred miles from Denver, passed in silence. It took a little under three hours, so Clint managed to get them to a motel right before sundown. He and Barney checked in, surveyed their rooms, and carted their belongings inside. Clint had stayed in worse places, but he'd also seen better. The safe house in Trinidad, for example, had put this motel to shame. The room was barely bigger than the queen-sized bed and desk holding the television, and Clint could distinctly hear the cars passing on the nearby highway. Barney entered Clint's room, a scowl on his face.

"Not the best place, little brother."

"Better than where we were," Clint replied, not in the mood to argue. He just wanted a shower, food, and bed. These flashbacks and the fight had gotten to him. "We're as secure as we're gonna get here."

Barney nodded. "Let me check that arm."

Clint rolled his eyes but sat stoically on his bed while his brother unwrapped the bandage and checked the wound. Clint hissed when the dried blood came off, trying to see the wound in the mirror while Barney gently wiped at it with warm water. Finally, he pulled it away. "Will I live?"

"You'll have another scar." Barney folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "Next move?"

Clint reached for a t-shirt and jeans. "Sleep." He dropped his voice to a near whisper. "I'll contact Natasha in a few moments, get her opinion, and come up with a plan. But we can't talk here. It'll take a day or two to find a secure location since I don't know of a SHIELD safe house in Cañon City."

Barney blinked "SHIELD? You're with _them_?" Then, he sighed. "I thought that was just media hype after the attacks in New York."

Clint shrugged. "Nope."

Barney understood what he wasn't saying. "Get some rest. I want to look at that arm first thing." He paused at the door. "And, if you need to talk. . . ."

Clint lobbed a rolled pair of socks at his brother, grinning when they bounced off of Barney's nose. "Get outta here and let me shower."

Barney left with a smirk after tossing the socks back into the room. Clint reached for the SHIELD comms and slipped into the bathroom, turning on the shower and sighing at cracked linoleum and a less-than-spotless sink. Then, slipping the comm into his ear, he rattled off his name and personal code. "Confirm line secure."

"_Confirmed,"_ the voice at the other end said. _"Transferring to Agent Romanoff."_

A few seconds later, Natasha's voice came over the line. _"Clint."_

"Hey, Tasha." He heard the exhaustion in his own voice and knew it had not escaped her notice. "How are things?"

"_Good. We found Trish and brought her in."_ Natasha's smile could clearly be heard. _"She's got spirit."_

"Probably had to have spirit," Clint muttered. "Any information for us?"

"_Yes, a lot. I'll forward it all to your next location since I'm assuming you're no longer in the last safe house."_

"You're good," Clint said as he stood and pulled his shirt over his head. He wasn't able to stop the hiss as his wound pulled against the fabric.

Natasha caught it. _"What happened?"_

"Eight guys decided we needed to be taken down." Clint dropped the t-shirt on the floor and studied the wound more closely in the mirror. "I'm fine, Nat. Just cuts and bruises. Bad guy took exception to me being on a horse and him on the ground."

"_Any of them get away?"_

"Nope."

"_Then you'll like to hear we have a location on Elihas Starr."_ Her words made Clint perk up a bit. He went very still, listening to everything Natasha said—or didn't say. _"He's taken refuge in a compound in the Denver area. Why he's in the States is beyond me, but our asset says he'll be holed up there. I've been trying to confirm that, and we should have it within twenty-four hours."_

Clint nodded. "Orders?"

"_Infiltrate the compound and take him out."_ She had a way of making it sound so easy. Then, she destroyed the confidence. _"You need backup?"_

Clint understood the question. This was his first real op since Loki, and something like this was always done with the two of them. "No," he growled. "I've got Barney. Besides, I think it's something _he_ needs to do."

"_Why?"_

"Because. . . ." Clint blinked as a realization swept over him, and he saw his face go pale in the mirror. He stared at his reflection, wondering why he'd not understood until now.

"_Clint?"_

"I'm here." He frowned. "I just realized that Egghead is Barney's 'Loki.' He _needs_ to take him down."

"_Clint, you don't. . . ."_

"Yes, I do." Clint was suddenly tired of this conversation. "I get you're concerned, Nat, and I appreciate it. But _I_ need to help him do this."

She sighed loudly over the comms. _"Just call if you need anything."_

"Will do." He smiled at nothing. "And I'll contact you in Denver."

"_Sleep well."_

Clint pulled the comm unit out of his ear and shook his head. Sleep well? Not likely. But he would enjoy his shower and try to make the rock-hard bed at least a bit comfortable. He really didn't have a choice.

oOo

Egghead's compound sat at the edge of Denver, in an area filled with abandoned warehouses and homeless drunks. Clint crouched on the roof of a building across the street, out of sight and watching as a pair of guards tried not to be that conspicuous. Most of the time, the cops didn't come down to this area, preferring to let the thugs do the policing. It was the way life went with the underworld, and Clint had once worked within it.

But this set-up bothered him. He'd left Barney sleeping at the safe house and had come to observe at night. Getting inside the _warehouse_ would be easy. Getting inside the _compound_ would take a bit more work. The paperwork SHIELD had sent his way showed this entire block of warehouses was owned by one of Starr's front companies, but only this one seemed populated. Which meant the compound was likely underground. Infiltrating a secure compound took time and planning; infiltrating a secure _underground_ compound took time, planning, and guts. Clint knew he had the guts. He just hoped Barney could take the time he'd need.

He sat in his perch for a long time, not moving as the evening's shadows grew and the guards changed. Barney knew of his plans and knew he needed time to himself. Ever since that dream, when he'd cut Barney's arm, his brother had hovered and tried to draw him out about whatever haunted him. Clint appreciated the gesture, but he refused to talk to Barney. What would his brother understand about being mind controlled by a megalomaniacal, vengeful god? Natasha tried, but only Eric Selvig really got it. But Selvig had found comfort with Jane Foster and his work. Clint wasn't as lucky.

So, here he sat, watching and noting guard changes and patterns as he began his surveillance. Given the level of security and the unknowns, he and Barney would continue to observe and plan over the next several weeks. It had already been three days since the attack in Trinidad, and Clint felt his strength finally returning to his right arm. He'd fired his bow once, determined that he could if pressed but would appreciate the next few weeks to let it heal. He also hoped to get his head screwed on straight before then. A flashback at the _wrong_ time could be deadly.

At dawn, he made his way back to the safe house and found Barney cooking breakfast. His stomach rumbled at the smell of bacon, eggs, toast, and, most importantly, coffee. He still had pictures to print out, plans to draw up, and strategy to discuss. He'd need the strong coffee.

Barney didn't say a word until they'd eaten half of their breakfast. Their days had finally fallen into a routine. Barney quit harassing Clint about the flashbacks, and Clint stopped giving sarcastic answers when Barney asked. It had taken them two full days and a minor fistfight to figure out that dynamic. Clint smirked as he chewed carefully. His brother had a mean right hook.

Now, though, he methodically laid out what he knew. Barney listened intently, not interrupting and absorbing everything Clint said. When Clint fell silent, he sighed. "What do you suggest?"

Clint blinked at that. His brother was asking his opinion? Over the last weeks, he and Barney had not really discussed their operations. Clint had just ordered, and Barney grudgingly obeyed. Part of their fight had been about Clint's habit of taking control without giving Barney any reasons. Now, he frowned. "It's gonna take a lot more surveillance."

"Yeah, I see that."

"No, you don't." Clint decided to throw his brother a bone. "The compound's underground. That means we see only perimeter activity. To truly figure out what's going on in there, one of _us_ has to actually go in and map the place before we even think about taking down Starr. That is, unless we can get the information another way. Since Trish wasn't really involved in her uncle's operations, that's not an option. If we move in too soon, it'll turn into another situation like. . . ." Clint's voice trailed off as he considered telling Barney everything.

Barney leaned forward. "Like?"

Clint met his eyes. "Budapest."

oOo

"_No, we need to wait!" Natasha Romanoff rarely showed emotion, but twenty-two-year-old Clint didn't pick up on the change. "We don't know what's inside!"_

_He gave her a smirk. "I know all I need to know."_

"_Do you?" She folded her arms. "How much surveillance have you done?"_

"_Enough."_

"_Not enough." She shook her head. "We might not exactly be friends, Barton, but I respect you. And you're a good ally. But if you go into that building, you'll get _both_ of us killed. And I quite like living."_

"_You do?" Clint asked, choosing to joke around and make light of the situation. "Could've fooled me."_

_He received a solid crack on the back of his head for that one. She glared at him. "Just listen to me!"_

_He whirled and invaded her personal space, standing almost nose-to-nose with her. "You're here on _my_ mission, to help _me_ get what _my_ organization wants. You get how that works? _I_ call the shots."_

_Her face closed down, her eyes losing all emotion faster than he could blink. "I understand."_

_Ninety minutes later, Clint wished he'd listened. The first part of their operation had gone well. He and Natasha infiltrated the compound, getting to their objective and retrieving it without any problems. It was getting _out_ that had proven to be the most difficult. On the way in, they'd come across only a couple of guards. On the way out, they'd met a veritable army. Both of them carried limited ammunition, and Clint's bow and quiver proved that he was the well-known Hawkeye without him needing to say a word._

_Hearing Natasha yell at him to get down, Clint hit the deck just as one of her daggers flew past his head. He scrambled to his feet and ran, knowing she'd be right behind him. Sunlight grew brighter as they reached the door, and Clint cued up one of his latest acquisitions. Once outside, he took aim and fired, the explosive arrowhead bringing the compound down on the guards still after them._

_But that didn't take care of the guards still between them and freedom. Clint and Natasha dove behind the rubble, both of them popping up to take shots at their attackers. Clint counted his arrows and realized he'd run out of them before he ran out of guards. Next to him, Natasha ducked as Clint fired at a guy approaching from the roof._

_He saw the grenade too late and knocked Natasha out of the way just as he took the full brunt of the shock wave._

oOo

"You knew the Black Widow before you ever worked for SHIELD?"

Clint blinked at his brother's comment. "Out of everything I just told you, _that's_ what you remember?"

Barney shrugged and, rather than pursuing that line of questioning, chose another topic. "How bad were the injuries?"

Clint waggled his head back and forth. "Not very, considering. We made it out alive—barely. And I nearly died because of it. But that's how I met Coulson, so I guess it's all good."

"Coulson?"

"Friend of mine." Clint lowered his eyes to his coffee cup, feeling his hands starting to shake as he remembered the events after Budapest. Standing suddenly, he sighed. "I'm gonna print out the pictures I took last night."

Leaving his brother to glare at his abrupt departure, Clint worked to put everything about those days back where they belonged in his mind. He didn't need to think about Coulson right now. It was enough to know that Coulson wouldn't be waiting for him when he got back to New York. He really did not want to break down while planning this op because some of the details reminded him of meeting the man who saved his life. He owed Coulson everything.

In the area of the living room set up to be an office, Clint plugged the SD card from the digital camera into the computer and started the pictures printing. His head ached from a lack of sleep, and he needed to start drawing up schematics for Starr's base. But telling his brother that one snippet of his past had allowed him to relax a bit, to reminisce, to safely allow the memories of bad times to overtake him without fearing for his or another person's safety.

"Huh," he mumbled as his eyes closed. "Maybe there's somethin' to this talkin' thing Coulson always wanted to do."

He was never quite sure if he spoke that last bit aloud. Barney found him an hour later, sound asleep with a cup of cold coffee in his hands.

~TBC


	9. Somethin' To Believe

**Author's Notes:** Good morning, everyone! It's Thanksgiving break here in the US, and I'm enjoying the freedom to not set an alarm. :)

**Jessica:** ROFL! Your comments never fail to make me smile (or outright laugh), and I enjoy each of them!

As always, hope you enjoy the chapter. This one was a point in the story where I had absolutely _no_ idea what should happen. So, Clint took over and kind of wrote it. Anyway, here it is! ~lg

oOo

The next three weeks passed in a blur. Clint spent hours on his perch across from Egghead's compound, watching, noting guard changes, seeing things that most people wouldn't realize were important, and in general preparing himself for the upcoming mission. He went during the day and at night, getting a feel for what to expect once inside. But the most thorough surveillance couldn't tell him what he needed to know, so, after a week of watching, he prepared to go in.

Barney provided a constant source of irritation during those days. Clint often found himself torn between strangling his brother and grateful the other man was there. He wouldn't allow Barney anywhere near Egghead's compound at first, knowing that Egghead's guards would recognize Barney on sight. They'd identify him, as well, but not for the same reasons. As Hawkeye, he'd done work in Europe, had built up a name for himself as an assassin, and was somewhat notorious for using his bow. This time, however, he'd be taking in a plethora of knives hidden on his person plus a couple of sidearms. Without his bow and quiver, he could conceivably slip past their security equipment and get the information they needed.

Barney argued with him, and Clint brushed it off as brotherly concern. He'd had several dreams since arriving in Denver, the most spectacular of which resulted in him physically attacking Loki's specter and taking himself down in the process. Barney was rightfully concerned, but Clint assured him this was normal. He'd had violent dreams like this and usually escaped to some archery range or another to fire his bow and calm his mind. Here in Denver, he didn't have that option.

Dressed in all black, Clint slipped past the guards outside of Egghead's compound and got inside the warehouse with minimal effort. He found a guy about his size dozing in a corner and knocked him out with a quick move. Then, taking his clothes, Clint gained access to the compound by simply walking down a set of stairs hidden in an abandoned office.

Egghead's compound was state-of-the-art. Clint spotted fingerprint scanners on the more secure doors and suddenly hoped he wouldn't set off any biometric alarms when he passed under the cameras. Nothing tweaked, however, and he was able to get a basic feel for the compound. It took three hours to just walk around, blend in with the other guards, and take note of the command center. He also dropped several bugs that would transmit everything to his computer. Given the amount of frequencies coming out of the place by virtue of the work being done there, he was fairly confident they wouldn't be discovered.

By the time he bounded up the stairs into the warehouse, the man whose clothes he'd stolen was awake. Clint knocked him out again, redressed him, and disappeared into the predawn shadows.

Barney waited for him back at the safe house. "How'd it go?"

Clint smirked. "Let's just say getting in will be easy. The guards up top are a joke."

Barney narrowed his eyes. "Is that Budapest talking, or Romanoff?"

Clint rolled his eyes at his brother's question. "Budapest" meant Clint's failure to consider all aspects. "Romanoff" indicated a well-thought-out strategy. Instead of admitting that it was a mixture of both, he looked around. "What happened to breakfast?"

Barney tossed him a packaged muffin. "Clint."

"What?"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." Clint chewed his first bite of the banana nut muffin while he thought. "I need to draw up the specs I have in my head. They won't be completely accurate, but it'll give us something to work off of. Without risking another trip inside, I can't guarantee everything. Oh!" He pulled an SD card from his pocket and flicked it toward Barney, grinning when his brother caught it. "Got some images from inside. Wanna see if you can ID any of these guys or what they're doing?"

By giving Barney something to do, Clint gained several hours of quiet. He sat on the couch, paper spread out across the coffee table, as he drew out the map he'd mentally created. He'd always been good with distances, a result of his marksmanship ability, and he'd been trained to take mental snapshots. It had served him well in the past and would make this op quite a bit easier. He managed to get everything down on paper before crashing on the couch, and he woke hours later to his brother cooking something in the kitchen while humming along with country-western music.

The next two weeks passed slowly. Natasha contacted Clint, learning everything he'd done and just trying to stay apprised. Clint appreciated her position and wondered if she'd ever get used to _not_ being in the field. He found out a club had rented one of the warehouses nearby to host a huge Halloween extravaganza, so he and Barney decided that would be the night they'd make their move. Egghead's guards would be expecting strangers in the area and, while edgy, wouldn't be as observant.

The day of their planned attack, Barney found Clint pouring over the maps and information they'd managed to gather. "You should rest."

Clint blinked up at his brother. "Yeah?"

Barney folded his arms, glaring. "I know you're not sleeping, and you're being stubborn about it. Just go get some sleep. This'll wait until later."

"This could give me last minute information we'll need inside," Clint responded, waving a hand across the pages and maps.

Barney rolled his eyes. "Which part of this do you _not_ have memorized?" When Clint was silent, he nodded. "My point. Get some sleep."

Clint glared but pushed himself upright. He was tired. This sitting around and planning was part of his job, but he honestly hated it. Which was likely why Coulson hadn't asked Clint to take his place. Natasha was so much better at these things.

In the bedroom, Clint collapsed onto the cot and closed his eyes. The first thing he pictured was the Commons in Stark Tower. He wasn't ready to return to New York just yet, but imagining himself comfortable helped keep the dreams at bay for a while longer. In the last few weeks, he'd remembered almost everything about his time with Loki, had relived old nightmares and new what-ifs, and had in general tried to put himself back together. He succeeded to some measure, but he could still feel the pressure building. He'd come apart again, eventually, if he didn't find someone to help him. The next time he came apart, he wasn't sure he would be able to repair the damage.

That night, he and Barney slipped through party-goers, both of them dressed in solid black and blending into the crowd. Clint smirked. There were a lot of witches and vampires at this party, but a large number of Captain Americas, Thors, Hulks, and Iron Mans had shown up. Slipping the digital camera out of his pocket, he took a few pictures just to show the crew back home when he got there.

One guy noticed him and Barney. "Hey, it's Robin Hood!"

Clint shook his head as the group around the guy turned. He'd often found it better to answer something like that than to make a scene trying to disappear. "Nope. Hawkeye."

"Who?"

One of the guy's cronies nudged his shoulder. "Remember? The Avengers' sniper? They said he worked for the enemy for a time. Personally, I don't believe it. Why would the Avengers have someone like that on their team? No, _I_ think he infiltrated the enemy's ranks to bring him down!"

Clint left the conversation behind, smirk in place as Barney snickered. "Shut up."

"Sorry." Barney chuckled again, quickly stifling it when Clint glared.

At the compound, Clint slipped his comm unit into his ear. "Hawkeye, reporting."

"_Confirm."_ Natasha's voice filled his mind and made him smile.

Beside him, Barney donned his own comm unit. "Trickshot. I read you loud and clear."

There was a long pause. _"I've heard about you. Listen to Hawkeye, and maybe we'll meet one day."_

Barney blinked at Clint. "She's protective!"

"Just a bit." Clint hugged the wall. "Attempting ingress now."

"_Hawkeye, you'd better do a lot more than 'attempt,'"_ Natasha said softly. _"Just so you know, the Avengers are on standby in Denver. Fury's orders."_

Clint clenched his jaw and then nodded. "Here's hoping you enjoy your visit and don't have to come bail us out."

Barney snickered again. "Should we invite them to the party down the way?"

Clint had to fight his own laugh over that scenario. He thought about it while they approached the warehouse in the shadows. "Yeah, Thor wouldn't understand and would drink everyone under the table. Bruce. . . .Let's just say it's best to keep Bruce away from the alcohol, and Stark would make a huge scene. The Cap. . . ." He shoved his quiver and bow into a backpack. "Not entirely sure what he'd do."

Natasha chuckled over the comms. _"You two realize all of us can hear you, right?"_

All chatter came to a halt as soon as Clint and Barney reached the stairs. The guards outside were more vigilant tonight on account of the party, though they barely glanced at Clint and Barney at first. They'd been seeing people in costume all night. When the brothers first attacked, one managed to get off a call on the radio, but Barney silenced him and then mimicked his voice well enough to convince the others that all was quiet. It was just some partiers getting too rowdy. Making it down the stairs was a little tougher. They stole the guards' uniforms and slipped into them, pushing their way downstairs with a quick explanation of needing medical supplies. Clint walked in like he owned the place, ignoring the number of people on edge with their little underground compound so close to a Halloween free-for-all. Barney, however, tugged his hat lower around his face and pretended to be the new guy. A couple of guards even stopped Clint to chat with him, never once realizing that they spoke with the enemy.

Weaving through the tunnels, the pair stayed close together, exchanging monosyllabic instructions and trying to look like they belonged. All the attention was focused on the perimeter tonight, giving them free reign as they went deeper into the compound. As the command center, along with Egghead's private lab, came into sight, Clint ducked out of the camera's line of sight and pulled his quiver from the bag he'd carried. Then, he snapped his bow open and nodded once to Barney. Keying his comm unit, he spoke softly. "We've reached the hub. Commencing with mission."

"_Acknowledged."_ Natasha's voice seemed tense.

Giving a nod to Barney, Clint prepared his brother for the mission. Since Egghead had long ago boasted that Hawkeye had taken the contract on Barney's head, they had decided to use that as a ruse to get close to Egghead. Of course, none of Egghead's employees would really know that unless they were in the office, but the legends about Hawkeye would grow when they started talking about how he'd infiltrated their base.

The command center was empty of all but two guards watching the security feeds. They were easily subdued, and then Clint marched Barney across the room and knocked on a door. A moment later, Elihas Starr called for them to enter. Clint knew it because of how Barney tensed under his grip. Keeping his face purposefully empty, Clint hooked his bow over his shoulder and quiver, then he shoved his brother into the room.

Elihas Starr was the oddest man Clint had ever seen. Well over two hundred pounds, he sat behind a desk as he wore a very expensive black pinstripe suit and red tie. His bald head was vaguely egg-shaped, hence the reason for his street name. He had two bruisers behind him, both of which reached for hidden weapons as soon as they realized their guests weren't expected.

Clint drew a knife and set it to Barney's neck. "One move, he dies."

Egghead made a calm-down motion with his hands. "And you are?"

Clint laughed coldly. "You bragged I took the contract and can't even tell who I am?"

After a moment, Egghead's face cleared. "Hawkeye."

"The one and only," Clint replied with a cocky smirk. "Now, about my payment."

"You didn't take the contract."

"I brought you a man your crews couldn't even begin to catch." Clint leveled a glare at the criminal kingpin. "And I infiltrated your secure base. Not one of your men outside this room even know I'm here." Seeing Starr's hand move, he flipped the knife so he held the blade. "And don't think about pushing that panic button. One flick of my wrist, I kill you as easily as I kill him."

Barney gulped so loudly that Clint heard him. He spared his brother a glance, hoping Barney would hold it together long enough to complete the mission. This was a ploy he and Natasha had used once, and he knew from personal experience just how disconcerting it was to have that one trusted partner turn into a cold-blooded killer.

Egghead narrowed his eyes. "You kill me, you don't get paid."

"I kill you, I take all your stuff." Clint almost rolled his eyes at that. He sounded like Tony Stark.

The standoff continued for a few more moments before Egghead made a decision. "Very well." He turned and addressed one of the guards behind him. "Take Hawkeye and pay him the going rate for Agent Barton, here. Then escort the good agent to my best holding cell. I have many questions to ask him."

Clint backed Barney out of the room and kept Egghead in his sights until the door closed. Then, in a lightning fast move, he dropped his hold on his brother and elbowed the guard in the face. The guy howled as he went down, breaking the silence and letting anyone within earshot know something was wrong. Clint quickly silenced the guy by snapping his neck, but the damage had been done. The second guard charged out of the office, and Clint tossed the knife in his hand just as Barney fired his Desert Eagle. That guard went down as easily as the first one.

Side by side, the brothers walked back into Egghead's office. Elihas Starr sat behind his desk, his hand still pressing the panic button as he stared at his enemies. Clint knew they made a sight. He had his bow out and an arrow ready while Barney looked downright ferocious with that weapon aimed at Starr's forehead.

Clint touched the comm in his ear. "We're clear for now, but you might want to think about containment. We weren't able to achieve mission objectives without making a mess."

Natasha sighed loudly. _"When do you ever _not_ make a mess?"_

Clint smirked at her response. "Will contact you when we're out."

Egghead watched the two of them. "You won't get out of here. I sounded the alarm, and there are hundreds of guards coming our way as we speak."

Beside Clint, Barney glared. "They won't kill you, will they?" When Starr frowned, Barney shrugged. "'Cause you're escortin' us out o' here."

"Really?" Egghead glanced between Clint and Barney. "Because I thought your orders were to kill me."

Clint played along with Barney's bluff. "You thought wrong." Pulling a pair of zip ties from his utility belt, he moved around the criminal mastermind and made sure to pull the ties too tight for Egghead's chubby wrists. "Now, move."

Outside the office, the trio found a wall of guards facing them. Barney kept his Desert Eagle trained on Egghead while Clint simply grinned. "That all you got, Starr? Because I gotta say I faced down a lot more than this in New York."

The guards hesitated when they saw their boss trussed up and pale. Clint shoved Starr's body forward, creating a hole in the crowd. Clint turned to cover his and Barney's backs as they passed, but he found out he'd made a mistake in not gagging their prisoner.

As soon as he'd cleared the group, Egghead shouted, "Shoot them! Don't just stand there! Shoot them!"

Clint's response was immediate. He fired the arrow he had ready and quickly drew another one. The fight turned into something of a brawl as Barney pushed Egghead down a narrow corridor, effectively bottle-necking their attackers. The body count grew as Clint's number of arrows diminished, but he wasn't all that concerned. Barney kept them moving toward their exit while Clint made sure they weren't followed. Knives and guns might have been better, but Clint loved his bow too much. He'd learned how to use it both as a distance weapon and in close combat.

At a junction, Barney shoved Egghead with enough force that he tripped and smacked his head on the corner on the way down. The brothers turned and ran for their exit, knowing they'd have to fight just to get out of the warehouse. Clint called for the Avengers through his comms just to make things a bit easier as he heard Egghead in the background, bawling for someone to get him out of the ties and get him a gun. The language was rather colorful and in several languages, and Clint grinned. Now he knew how he sounded when he started cussing and ran out of English words to use.

The stairwell leading up came into sight, and Clint heard the telltale sound of Stark's repulsors combined with Thor's hammer as they fought the battle on the surface. Egghead's shouting got louder, telling them that he'd managed to get free. He and Barney were halfway up the stairs, with Clint leading the way while hollering to Natasha, when Starr rounded the corner. A bullet pinged off the concrete wall, the chips of cement spraying Clint and Barney's faces and leaving stinging cuts in their wake. Clint cleared the top of the stairwell and hurried Barney with a motion of his hand.

Egghead stood at the bottom, his own gun aimed, when Barney turned and reloaded his Desert Eagle. Catching Starr's gaze, he stopped. Everything seemed to freeze for a moment before both Barney and Starr pulled their triggers. Starr's bullet went right into Barney's shoulder, but Barney's ricocheted off a metal vent. Clint caught his brother as Barney fell, blood already seeping onto his hands. Natasha was immediately there, but all fight left her as she looked down the stairwell. "Clint."

At her quiet tone, Clint leaned to see what had happened and grinned. Egghead lay at the bottom of the stairwell, a bullet hole in his forehead. Clint glanced at his brother. "He's not called 'Trickshot' for nothing."

oOo

Late that evening, Clint sat beside his brother's bed in a local hospital, relieved beyond reason that he wouldn't bury yet another family member. Barney's wound had been minor by way of comparison, but it had still required a trip to the emergency room, surgery to remove the bullet, and some antibiotics via IV. As much as Clint hated hospitals and had stayed in way too many over the years, he now willingly took up a vigil and smiled a welcome to Natasha when she slipped into the room.

"How's he doing?" she asked softly.

"Good." Clint nodded. "He'll make a full recovery." He thought for a moment and then sighed. "Tasha. . . ."

She stiffened. "Last time you used that tone on me, you asked me how many agents you killed."

"Nothing like that." Clint swallowed at the memory of that moment. "I know you wanted me to bring Barney in, but. . . ." He turned and stared at her. "He's my brother. And, after Coulson. . . ."

She understood what he was trying to say. "Trish is safe, as is Barney. Fury's called the rest of us back to New York, but you're still technically on a leave-of-absence. I think I can stall his debriefing until he's recovered enough. In the meantime, he'll be remanded into your custody."

Clint dipped his head once. "Thanks."

She reached over and gently turned his head so she could see the cuts along his face. "Did someone look at these?"

"Yeah. Bruce said they're superficial and should heal without a scar."

"Good." She stood. "I have to go."

"I know." He captured the hand she put on his shoulder. "Thanks for having my back, Natasha."

"Always." She took a few steps and then stopped when she reached the door. "Be safe, Clint."

As she disappeared down the hall, Clint turned back to his brother's bed. He had no idea what he'd do for the next month, and Barney would need time to get his thoughts in order. After all, he'd been "dead" for several years and likely had no idea what to do as that changed.

Before Clint could fully think through all the complications or begin to relax, Barney stirred in the bed. "She's quite a woman," he slurred.

Clint smirked. "You have no idea." Then, he frowned. "You're supposed to be sleeping."

"Right." Barney rolled his eyes. "Does morphine ever work on you?"

"No."

"Then you've got your answer."

"You want me to call a nurse?"

"I want you to tell me how you went from criminal assassin to SHIELD."

Clint blinked. That was _not_ what he'd expected to come from his brother's mouth. Then, he shrugged. Barney was still loopy from the anesthesia and likely wouldn't remember much anyway. "I told you I'd lost a good friend recently?"

Barney nodded that he did.

"His name was Phil Coulson." Clint's voice broke on those words. "Right after Budapest, I was brought before the head of the Conglomerate. I'd messed up so badly that we lost the tech Natasha and I went in after. It was all on me, too. The big boss had me in his sights and would have killed me, but Coulson stopped him. Said he could train me, teach me to be the best the Conglomerate had to offer." Clint laughed now, seeing the irony of it all. "I should have known Coulson had something up his sleeve."

Barney blinked slowly. "He did?"

"Yep. Coulson wasn't using his real name at the time. I knew him as Peter Klossner, one of the Conglomerate's lieutenants. I'd kept track of this guy, seeing how he rose to power by taking down his own commander. But he was trusted, and I was assigned to him." Clint shook his head. "I never realized he was training me to work _for_ him, not with him."

"How'd that happen?"

"We trained together for about three months." Clint sat back in his chair. "In that time, I noticed things that weren't adding up. . . ."

oOo

_Clint stalked toward the training room where he knew Peter Klossner waited. Of course, Peter wasn't Peter. He was Coulson, a federal agent with one of the United States' alphabet organizations. His quiet voice and calm manner had always impressed the young archer, and he'd learned much from Coulson. Coulson had learned a lot from Clint, too. And Clint wanted payback._

_He stormed into the room, seeing Coulson standing in the center of the mat, his arms crossed and feet apart. He raised an eyebrow at Clint's angry glare. "Have a mission?"_

_"Yeah. You." Clint cautiously approached the guy. "Who are you?"_

_Coulson smiled. "You know me, Clint."_

"_No, I don't!" Clint pulled an arrow and set it to his bowstring, his aim unwavering. Maybe, if he made this guy confess, he'd regain his former status as the Boss's favorite. "I'll ask again. Who are you?"_

_Coulson's eyes narrowed. "Why do you think I'm anything but me?"_

"_Because."_

"_That's not an answer."_

"_That's all I've got."_

"_Is it?"_

_Clint snarled, not at all pleased with Coulson's roundy-round answers. In that moment of weakness, Coulson charged. Clint released the arrow, but it flew harmlessly across the room as he used his bow to defend himself against the sudden attack. He drew his knee up, catching Coulson in the stomach, and then used his short advantage to shove away. He nocked another arrow and fired, Coulson smoothly dodging it as he sent Clint sprawling with a roundhouse kick. A moment later, his bow was kicked away, and Clint drew the knife he kept at the small of his back._

_The fight went on for a while, with neither man really gaining the upper hand. Coulson had poured everything he knew into Clint, and Clint used it as a way to bring the man down. Finally, he took a solid blow to his head and, while he tried rolling with it, found himself sprawled on the floor. He had a few arrows left in his quiver, the rest having been used when he lost his grip on his knife or the arrows he drew before that. Shaking his head and wondering when the next attack would come, he realized he could reach his bow. Grabbing it in a lightning quick move, he rolled onto his feet, drew an arrow, and sighted in on Coulson's head._

_Coulson stood in front of him, hands out and breathing hard. "Not bad."_

"_Shut up!" Clint blinked sweat and blood out of his eyes. "Now, I'm takin' you down the hallway and in front of Boss Man," he said as he used his personal nickname for the head of the Conglomerate. "He'll decide how I get to kill you. Or, I could kill you now. Up to you. But you've only got those two options."_

"_There's a third option," Coulson said quietly. "Come with me."_

"_What?"_

"_You heard me."_

_Clint laughed suddenly, not sure whether it was adrenaline or the concussion that made him do so. "I'm trying to kill you, and you want me to go on the lam with you?"_

"_No." Coulson drew himself up to his full height. "I want you to come work for me."_

_Clint could never pinpoint what it was that made him hesitate. Maybe it was Coulson's steadiness or the buried desire to have something better in life. With the Conglomerate, he had everything he needed and more. He didn't mind the killing so much, but knowing that he could never truly walk down the street without making sure he wasn't seen. . . .That took a toll on a man. Whatever it was, it proved to be Clint's undoing as Coulson moved forward and grabbed Clint's bow, deflecting the arrow. He found himself pinned to a wall while Coulson held a knife to his neck._

_A few tense moments later, Coulson stepped back. "You want out? Meet me tonight. Midnight. We'll get out." Then, he walked out of the room, leaving Clint gasping for air and holding ribs either bruised or cracked from the fight._

oOo

Clint chuckled as he saw Barney's eyes close. "I thought he was insane. But I went with him. I later found out he was Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD, formerly of the FBI."

Barney's eyes popped open. "Oh, _that_ Coulson."

"Yeah, that Coulson." Clint leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the edge of his brother's bed. "Sleep, Barney. I'll tell you more tomorrow."

As Barney fell asleep, Clint took the time to truly remember his first days at SHIELD. It hadn't been the easiest, but it finally gave him something to believe, something to trust. Coulson had been there the entire time, one of the few covert operatives that SHIELD had. Clint had pushed every limit, seeing just how much leeway Coulson would give him. Whenever that happened, the men took their disagreements to the mat. Both tended to walk away bruised and battered, but a lifelong trust and brotherhood was built through it.

Clint watched Barney sleep. Coulson would have wanted him to reconnect with his biological brother. Many times, Phil had asked Clint to contact Barney, to make things right before Barney "died." Now, Coulson was really dead while Barney had survived. It made Clint's head spin, and he knew he was far from over Coulson's death. But, he could honor Coulson. He could make sure that the one request Coulson had for him over the years was answered.

With tears in his eyes and his throat closing, Clint leaned his head back and tried to rest. Tomorrow would start a new brotherhood with Barney, but it would never replace what he'd shared with Coulson. And he was okay with that.

~TBC


	10. Long Time Comin'

**Author's Note:** Well, folks, here it is! The final chapter! For all of my American readers, I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving. For everyone-American or not-I really hope you enjoyed this story. Drop a line and let me know what you think!

**Jessica****:** Had to have some bro bonding time in there! :D

**FineByMeee:** You just gave me an idea! Not for this series, but for a separate story! :D

As always, enjoy! ~lg

oOo

The month of November passed in a blur for Clint. He and Barney spent the first three weeks together, crisscrossing the United States and seeing the sights. They returned to New Mexico, saw Mary, apologized for what had happened, and found Barney an SUV to replace the one the police had towed as an abandoned vehicle. Then, they drove up the Pacific Coast Highway, taking the time to stop and absorb the beauty of the sunset. They found time to catch an Oakland Raiders game for Barney's benefit, and Clint found it in him to cheer for his brother's team. He had never really been a football fan, preferring the beauty of pitching in a baseball game. But the time with Barney helped heal something in his mind.

Over the course of those weeks, Clint told Barney bits and pieces of his history. He never really opened up about his time with Loki, but Barney knew not to push that bit of information. Instead, he asked Clint about Coulson, the Avengers, and his work with SHIELD. The flashbacks faded, no longer interrupting his day-to-day life but still cropping up at odd times. And the oddest things triggered them. One day, while brushing his teeth, he'd looked at his reflection in the mirror and suddenly found himself staring into Loki's eyes. That day, he and Barney had rented adjoining rooms, and Barney managed to calm him before he did something truly spectacular.

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, Clint and Barney were ready for their own space. Yes, they drove their own vehicles and did things on their own, but the time had come for Barney to turn himself over to SHIELD. Fury had questions—a _lot_ of questions—as well as wanting a debrief of Barney's time in Egghead's operation. And Clint needed to make a trip to Portland.

The day after Thanksgiving, while most were out shopping, the two stood at a private runway in northern California. One of SHIELD's Quinjets waited for Barney, Natasha framed in the opening as she watched the brothers say goodbye. She'd already greeted them and given them the rundown for the next few weeks, and Clint had to admit that she did a great job on filling Coulson's shoes.

Now, he stared at Barney. "Take care of yourself."

"You, too." Barney sent a sly glance toward Natasha. "Hey, you and she ever. . .?"

"Nah." Clint shrugged. "Crossed my mind a time or two, but we never did anything about it. There _was_ a girl a few years back."

"What happened with that?"

"Didn't work out." Clint frowned. "You?"

Barney's lips turned upward. "There are reasons why I stashed Trish."

Clint returned the grin. "I thought so." He swallowed, a scowl coming to his face a moment later. This shouldn't be so hard. He held out his hand. "Take care of yourself, Barney," he said again, not sure what else to say. "And stay in touch."

"You, too." Barney shook his hand and then, in one swift move, pulled Clint in for a hug. The two brothers slapped one another on the back, both of them emotional. Finally, Barney nodded. "I'm glad you're okay, little brother."

Clint smirked, refraining himself from smacking his brother upside the head. "Me, too."

He stepped backward and watched as Barney joined Natasha in the Quinjet. The plane took off before the back hatch had closed, and Clint lifted a hand in farewell. Natasha nodded to him, but Barney waved until the hatch finished its slow ascent. Still, Clint stayed rooted in place until the jet had disappeared from sight.

With a deep sigh, he turned back to his truck. The tension of being followed, of watching his back to prevent Egghead's attack, had faded, and he now knew what "normal" people experienced. Life. Freedom. The ability to live without fear. It was all something that Clint's work with SHIELD had provided, and being able to experience it for himself had gone a long way to healing his brokenness. He still had Loki to deal with, but, as he climbed into his truck, he nodded. He'd get help when he returned to New York. He made that promise to himself and to Coulson's memory.

oOo

Jennifer McKent lived on 67th Avenue in Portland, Oregon. Clint pulled to a stop outside her house and slowly got out of his truck. After taking down Egghead, he'd re-read Coulson's letter to him and cursed the other man for asking him to do this. But the truth slapped Clint in the face, and he'd had to readjust his way of thinking. Coulson had loved Jennifer, and he had trusted Clint to deliver his final words to her. The weight of that made Clint wonder if he should wear a suit and tie or simply show up. He settled for an in-between look, choosing slacks, a button-down shirt, and a jacket to ward off the chill.

Jennifer answered her door, a frown on her face. She was a plump woman, pretty with brown hair and eyes. She wore an asymmetrical tunic of black and teal, covering a pair of leggings and sandals. "Can I help you?"

"Ms. McKent?" Clint swallowed and forced himself to speak when she nodded. "My name is Clint Barton. I worked with Phil."

Her eyes widened at that, and she stepped back. "Please come in. I was on the back porch. Care to join me?"

Clint nodded and followed her, smiling at the neatness he saw in the house. Phil had been that way, too, and he suddenly realized just how perfectly matched the pair had been.

Once outside, he perched on the edge of the chair that Jennifer had indicated. "I won't be long, Ms. McKent, but we found some of Phil's things recently." He gave her a sympathetic look, knowing just how difficult this would be for her. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the letter, running his fingers over Phil's handwriting. "He left me a letter, too," he said softly.

Jennifer had tears in her eyes when she accepted the letter. She tried to speak a couple of times and failed, letting one tear fall as she gathered herself. Clint glanced away, feeling the pain that rolled off of her and wrapping it up in his own. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barton."

"Clint. Please."

She gave him a watery smile. "I knew Phil was a federal agent, but. . . ." She shook her head. "You never think it'll happen to you." Then. . .she sighed. "Then, he told me everything. What he did, why he did it. I don't know if he was even allowed to do that, but he did."

Clint simply smiled. It was against regulations for Coulson to tell Jennifer anything, but he had obviously gotten fed up with regulations. _If you were still here, I'd give you grief for the rest of your life,_ he thought.

Jennifer continued speaking. "I came back home. Bought a house. Ignored the fact that I got scared and left." She stared at the letter in her hands. "Did he suffer, Clint?"

Clint's eyes slid shut at that question. "No." He shook his head. "I wasn't able to be there. I'd been. . .taken down. . .in the attack. But I know he didn't suffer."

She nodded and cried for a bit more, never once inviting any form of comfort other than to hold on to his hand. "I was an idiot," she said brokenly. "I knew it when I left, and I can't get over it now."

Clint tightened his grip on her hand. It had been six months since Coulson's death, and he still hadn't healed from it. How could he expect Jennifer to have recovered? Not when she had obviously loved the man.

Finally, she set the letter aside with a firm nod. "Thank you for delivering this, Clint." Then, she blinked. "Wait. Clint. . . .Not Hawkeye?"

Clint grinned at that. "The one and only, ma'am."

She laughed at that, a sound that seemed to be mixed between true glee and a sob. "Phil told me about you. Said you were the most infuriating person to ever cross his path."

"I'm sure I was." He studied her closely. "He ever tell you how we met?"

"No."

For the second time in as many months, Clint told the story of his first meeting with Coulson. He left out certain parts, namely his attempts to kill the guy and what he truly did for the Conglomerate. But Jennifer got the point of the story from what he did say. She listened closely, smiling when he spoke of Coulson's more charming habits. When he finally fell silent, he wondered how telling a simple story could be so cathartic. But each time he let himself reveal a little more about his past, he felt as if some small part of him had been restored. "Sorry. I don't usually talk that much."

"It's fine." Jennifer had sat back in her chair during the course of his story. "I'm glad you told me. Phil mentioned you often. Usually in the context of, 'I'm gonna kill that _idiot_ the next time I see him!'"

At that, Clint truly laughed. "He talked about you a lot, too." His voice softened. "Usually in the context of, 'I think I've found a reason to leave SHIELD.'"

Her eyes widened. "He didn't!"

"Yeah, he did."

She shook her head. "I never thought it would end this way." For a moment, everything was silent. Then, she met his eyes. "Do you play music, Clint?"

The sudden change in topics confused him, and he frowned. "A bit." And he did. A mission a few years back had required him to be able to play a bit on the guitar. So, Coulson had pulled out an old Taylor guitar and proceeded to teach Clint the basics. "I haven't touched music in years."

Jennifer nodded and stood. "Wait here." She slipped inside the house, taking Coulson's letter with her.

Clint sat back in his chair, determined to be patient. He'd surprised her, and he wanted to make certain she'd be okay before he left. Her life would never be the same after receiving Coulson's letter, but he hoped Coulson's words would be as helpful to her as they were to him. Almost daily, he heard Coulson telling him something and realized the wisdom the man had possessed. And that blasted obsession with Captain America. . . .Clint grinned and thought about the trading cards that lay on his dresser in Stark Tower. Coulson had written them into his will, entrusting them to Clint. Bloodstained or not, they were some of Clint's most valued possessions.

Jennifer returned a while later, her face showing evidence of her tears. But she smiled as held a battered black guitar case in her hands. "This was Phil's," she said softly as Clint stood. "He would pull it out every now and then and play. He wasn't all that good, but he loved it. Said it was his grandfather's." She stared at Clint, her eyes filling with tears. "He'd want you to have it."

Clint accepted the guitar only because it was shoved into his hands. The emotions he'd tried to hide broke through, and he shook his head. "I can't."

"Yes, you can." She watched as he stared at the case. "He once told me he taught you a few chords while the two of you hung out. Said you were good and, if he trusted anyone with the things he valued the most, it was you. When I moved, this was packed up by the movers. But I know he'd want you to have it."

Clint scowled, trying not to break down and cry in front of this woman. She had loved Phil Coulson as a man while he had loved Coulson as a brother. They shared a common grief, and that made the emotions seem even more profound. Rather than trying to hide, he let his eyes fill with tears as he looked at Jennifer. "Thank you." His voice cracked, and he didn't try to correct that. "It means a lot."

She smiled again, and Clint let out a sharp breath. He looked around for a good exit and realized there wasn't one. "I should be going."

Jennifer walked him to the door, watching as he tucked the guitar in his truck next to his beloved bow. Then, he waved as he backed out of the driveway. He drove directly to his hotel, carried the guitar inside, and dropped it on his bed. Cursing at Coulson, he paced to the window and looked out.

Phil Coulson had loved people. Every person that Coulson claimed as his friend or family had been given a very unique brand of attention. With Clint, it was fisticuffs, sarcastic comments, and almost obsessive training. Natasha received standoffish affection at first, but that settled into friendly banter and a big brother/kid sister type thing. Stark. . . .Clint smirked. Coulson had actually _liked_ the insufferable billionaire, and Clint still sometimes wondered why. But it didn't matter. Coulson had possessed this wonderful ability to bring out the best in people, and it usually worked. Even if it was a long time coming.

Moving back to the bed, Clint opened the guitar case and stared at the instrument. It was old, and the fretboard had been worn by repeated playing. The strings could use changing, but, as he ran his fingers over them, Clint heard the aged, warm sound that Coulson had loved.

That sound broke through the hold that Clint had kept on his emotions. He picked up the guitar with tears streaming down his face and gently picked at the strings. As the notes echoed around the room, he grieved for his friend and brother. Not the frantic, broken grieving that he'd done on the side of a road in New Mexico. No, this was the healing grief of a man who had lost something so profound that it might never heal.

But he _could_ work toward healing.

With that realization, something slipped into place, and Clint Barton realized who he was. Yes, he was a victim of Loki, a prisoner of war in his own mind, and a traitor to his organization. But, more than that, he'd been the brother and friend of a _good_ man, a man who gave his all to protect the entire planet. He was an Avenger, one of "Earth's mightiest heroes," as Stark called them. He had saved Natasha's life and, in turn, received her trust and admiration. But he was so much more than that. There was a part of Clint Barton that he'd never allowed anyone but Coulson and Natasha see. No one knew just how much he liked baseball, that he rooted for the New York Mets in spite of their underdog status, that he appreciated a practical joke more than others, and that he still liked to perform on occasion. Barney had started to uncover part of that during their three weeks on the road, but Clint hadn't dropped the mask he wore every day of his life.

He could start now, he realized as the emotional storm passed. He looked up and breathed through his mouth as the setting sun highlighted the rich wood tones of the guitar. He could return to New York, find a good SHIELD psychologist, deal with his past, and press forward. Stark would welcome him back to the Tower, and he knew Natasha would want him back in the field as soon as possible.

The decision energized him, and he glanced at his watch. It would take forty-eight hours, if not a touch longer, to get there. But he could be home by December. A smile touched his lips as he tucked the guitar away, gathered up some clothes, and climbed in the shower. After bathing and shaving the goatee he'd worn all this time, he pulled on night clothes and climbed into bed. For the first time in months, he slept peacefully, resting as his body needed but without the constant interruptions. No, he wasn't fully healed, but he had started the process.

In the morning, he ate breakfast and then checked out of the hotel. He waited until he'd made his way to Interstate-84 before calling Natasha. He smiled when she answered. "It's me."

"_How are you?"_

"I'm fine." He glanced over at the guitar. "Visit to Jennifer was hard, but it was good."

"_She okay?"_

"She will be." Clint changed lanes and pushed his foot against the gas pedal. "Tasha, I'm coming home."

Her sharp breath came through the phone line. _"Are you ready to be home?"_

"Yeah, I am." He nodded. "I'm not ready to be put in the field just yet. Not even sure I should fly a desk, either. I've got a lot of issues to work out, Nat, but being alone and chasing a past that was never perfect to begin with isn't going to fix that."

"_You tell me what you need, Clint, and I'll make it happen."_ Her words made him smile.

"You realize Coulson said the exact same thing to me once?"

"_Must have been his thing because he did the same for me, too."_ She chuckled slightly. _"You sound more like yourself."_

"So do you." He grinned. "Just let Stark know to have my room ready. I'm not staying in another hotel or motel or crappy apartment when I get back. I've had enough of that over the last four months."

"_He already knows,"_ she said softly. _"Drive safe, Clint. When you get back, we'll talk about all the details like psychologists and what you're doing while you're healing. For now, just come home."_

A few moments later, he hung up the phone and switched on the radio. Hawkeye and Agent Barton rarely listened to music as they drove, but _Clint Barton_ had found he liked a wide variety of music. Except for country western. He still didn't understand Barney's fascination with that.

Sighing deeply as he left Oregon behind and began the long drive through Idaho, Clint smiled. He was going home. While not fully healed, he was a whole man now, his heart having mended enough that he could face what was still broken. It had taken six months, and would likely take a lot longer than that. But he felt the change in his mind. Loki might try to torment him for a while longer, but he had tasted freedom.

And freedom was a beautiful thing. It had been a long time coming.

_~The End~_

oOo

_**Coming In December!**_

"_Home For Christmas"_

Clint Barton returned from four months away as he tried to remake himself. He succeeded to an extent, but he is ready to be home. Returning to New York City, he finds himself automatically absorbed into a family, Christmas traditions, and SHIELD. But a face from the past sends the Avengers into a tailspin, and Clint must find the strength to keep them together long enough to save two of their own.

Sequel to _"Long Time Comin'"_


End file.
